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'You  must  flirt,  Mr.  Markham— and  make  pretty  speeches—'" 

[PAGE  67] 


MADCAP 


BY 

GEORGE  GIBBS 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  FORBIDDEN  WAY,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS' 


COPYBIGHT,  1913,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1913,  by  the  ASSOCIATED  SUMDAY  MAGAZINES,  INCORPORATED 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
MY  FRIEND 

HORACE  HOWARD  FURNESS 


2135750 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  •      PAGE 

I.    HEEMIA .     .     .     .     .     .        1 

II.    THE  GORILLA 10 

III.  THE  INEFFECTUAL  AUNT     .     .     .     .     .     .  ~.7  19 

IV.  MAROONED .'".""   30 

V.    BREAD  AND  SALT 39 

VI.    THE  RESCUE 47 

VII.    "WAKE  ROBIN" .     .      57 

VIII.    OLGA  TCHERNY ~T     69 

IX.    OUT  OF  His  DEPTH 80 

X.    THE  FUGITIVE 92 

XI.    THE  GATES  OF  CHANCE 101 

XII.    THE  FAIRY  GODMOTHER 113 

XIII.  VAGABONDIA 128 

XIV.  THE  FABIANI  FAMILY 140 

XV.    DANGER 153 

XVI.    MANET  CICATRIX 165 

XVII.    PERE  GUEGOU'S  ROSES 172 

XVIII.    A  PHILOSOPHER  IN  A  QUANDARY 184 

XIX.    MOUNTEBANKS 196 

XX.    THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 211 

XXI.    NEMESIS 226 

XXII.    GREAT  PAN  is  DEAD 239 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  , 

XXIII.  A  LADY  IN  THE  DUSK 252 

XXIV.  THE  WINGS  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY 266 

XXV.      ClRCE  AND  THE   FOSSIL  280 

XXVI.  MRS.  BERKELEY  HAMMOND  ENTERTAINS  .  .  .  293 

XXVII.  THE  SEATS  OF  THE  MIGHTY 305 

XXVIII.  THE  BRASS-BELL 320 

XXIX.  Duo  330 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 


"'You  must  flirt,  Mr.  Markham — and  make  pretty 
speeches — '" Frontispiece 

"Markham    stood    up  and  watched  her,  his   arms 

a-kimbo,  a  tangle  at  his  brow  " 32 

"Even  Clarissa  stopped  her  grazing  long  enough  to 

lookup" 136 

"Philidor  had  felt  rather  than  seen  the  figure  which 

had  slowly  wedged  through  the  crowd  " .    .    .    .    204 


MADCAP 

CHAPTER    I 

HERMIA 

TITINE  glanced  at  the  parted  curtains  and  empty 
bed,  then  at  the  clock,  and  yawned.  It  was  not 
yet  eight  o'clock.  From  the  look  of  things,  she 
was  sure  that  Miss  Challoner  had  arisen  and  departed  for 
a  morning  ride  before  the  breaking  of  the  dawn.  She 
peered  out  of  the  window  and  contracted  her  shoulders 
expressively.  To  ride  in  the  cold  morning  air  upon  a 
violent  horse  when  she  had  been  out  late !  B — r !  But 
then,  Mademoiselle  was  a  wonderful  person — like  no  one 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world.  She  made  her  own  laws 
and  Titine  was  reluctantly  obliged  to  confess  that  she  her- 
self was  delighted  to  obey  them. 

Another  slight  shrug  of  incomprehension — of  abso- 
lution from  such  practices — and  Titine  moved  to  the  linen 
cabinet  and  took  out  some  fluffy  things  of  lace  and  ribbon, 
then  to  a  closet  from  which  she  brought  a  soft  room-gown, 
a  pair  of  silk  stockings  and  some  very  small  suede 
slippers. 

She  had  hardly  completed  these  preparations  when 
there  was  the  sound  of  a  door  hurriedly  closed  downstairs, 
a  series  of  joyous  yelps  from  a  dog,  a  rush  of  feet  on  the 
stairs  and  the  door  of  the  room  gave  way  before  the 

1 


MADCAP 

precipitate  entrance  of  a  slight,  almost  boyish,  female 
person,  with  blue  eyes,  the  rosiest  of  cheeks  and  a  mass 
of  yellow  hair,  most  of  which  had  burst  from  its  confines 
beneath  her  hat. 

To  the  quiet  Titine  her  mistress  created  an  impression 
of  bringing  not  only  herself  into  the  room,  but  also  the 
violent  horse  and  the  whole  of  the  out-of-doors  besides. 

"Down,  Domino!  Down,  I  say!"  to  the  clamorous 
puppy.  "Now — out  with  you!"  And  as  he  refused  to 
obey  she  waved  her  crop  threateningly  and  at  a  propitious 
moment  banged  the  door  upon  his  impertinent  snub-nose. 

"Quick,  Titine,  my  bath  and — why,  what  are  you  look- 
ing at?" 

"Your  hat,  Mademoiselle,"  in  alarm,  "it  is  broken, 
and  your  face " 

"It's  a  perfectly  good  face.  What's  the  matter  with 
it?" 

By  this  time  Miss  Challoner  had  reached  the  cheval 
glass.  Her  hat  was  smashed  in  at  one  side  and  several 
dark  stains  disfigured  her  cheek  and  temple. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  sight.  He  chucked  me  into  some  bushes, 
Titine " 

"That  terrible  horse — Mademoiselle !" 

"The  same — into  some  very  sticky  bushes — but  he 
didn't  get  away.  I  got  on  without  help,  too.  Lordy,  but 
I  did  take  it  out  of  him !  Oh,  didn't  I !" 

Her  eye  lighted  gayly  as  though  in  challenge  at  noth- 
ing at  all  as  she  removed  her  gloves  and  tossed  her  hat  and 
crop  on  the  bed  and  sprawled  into  a  chair  with  a  sigh, 
while  Titine  removed  her  boots  and  made  tremulous  and 
reproachful  inquiries. 

"Mademoiselle — will — will  kill  herself,  I  am  sure." 

Hermia  Challoner  laughed. 


HERMIA 


"Better  die  living — than  be  living  dead.  Besides,  no 
one  ever  dies  who  doesn't  care  whether  he  dies  or  not.  I 
shall  die  comfortably  in 'bed  at  the  age  of  eighty- three, 
I'm  sure  of  it.  Now,  my  bath.  Vite,  Titinel  I  have  a 
hunger  like  that  which  never  was  before." 

Miss  Challoner  undressed  and  entered  her  bathroom, 
where  she  splashed  industriously  for  some  minutes,  emerg- 
ing at  last  radiant  and  glowing  with  health  and  a  delight 
in  the  mere  joy  of  existence.  While  Titine  brushed  her 
hair,  the  girl  sat  before  her  dressing-table  putting  lotion 
on  her  injured  cheeks  and  temple.  Her  hair  arranged,  she 
sent  the  maid  for  her  breakfast  tray  while  she  finished  her 
toilet  in  leisurely  fashion  and  went  into  her  morning 
room.  The  suede  slippers  contributed  their  three  inches 
to  her  stature,  the  long  lines  of  the  flowing  robe  added 
their  dignity,  and  the  strands  of  her  hair,  each  woven 
carefully  into  its  appointed  place,  completed  the  trans- 
formation from  the  touseled,  hoydenish  boy-girl  of  half 
an  hour  before  into  the  luxurious  and  somewhat  bored 
young  lady  of  fashion. 

But  she  sank  into  the  chair  before  her  breakfast  tray 
and  ate  with  an  appetite  which  took  something  from  this 
illusion,  while  Titine  brought  her  letters  and  a  long  box 
of  flowers  which  were  unwrapped  and  placed  in  a  floor- 
vase  of  silver  and  glass  in  an  embrasure  of  the  window. 
The  envelope  which  accompanied  the  flowers  Titine 
handed  to  her  mistress,  who  opened  it  carelessly  between 
mouthfuls  and  finally  added  it  to  the  accumulated  litter  of 
fashionable  stationery.  Hermia  eyed  her  Dresden  choco- 
late-pot uncheerfully.  This  breakfast  gift  had  reached 
her  with  an  ominous  regularity  on  Mondays  and  Thurs- 
days for  a  month,  and  the  time  had  come  when  something 
must  be  done  about  it.  But  she  did  not  permit  unpleasant 

3 


MADCAP       

thoughts,  if  unpleasant  they  really  were,  to  distract  her 
from  the  casual  delights  of  retrospection  and  the  pleas- 
ures of  her  repast,  which  she  finished  with  a  thoroughness 
that  spoke  more  eloquently  of  the  wholesomeness  of  her 
appetite  even  than  the  real  excellence  of  the  cooking. 
Upon  Titine,  who  brought  her  the  cigarettes  and  a  brazier, 
she  created  the  impression — as  she  always  did  indoors — 
of  a  child,  greatly  overgrown,  parading  herself  with  mock- 
ing ostentation  in  the  garments  of  maturity.  The  cigar- 
ette, too,  was  a  part  of  this  parade,  and  she  smoked  it 
daintily,  though  without  apparent  enjoyment. 

Her  mail  finished,  she  was  ready  to  receive  feminine 
visitors.  She  seldom  lacked  company,  for  it  is  not  the 
fate  of  a  girl  of  Hermia  Challoner's  condition  to  be  left 
long  to  her  own  devices.  Her  father's  death,  some  years 
before,  had  fallen  heavily  upon  her,  but  youth  and  health 
had  borne  her  above  even  that  sad  event  triumphant,  and 
now  at  three  and  twenty,  with  a  fortune  which  loomed 
large  even  in  a  day  of  large  fortunes,  she  lived  alone  with 
a  legion  of  servants  in  the  great  house,  with  no  earthly 
ties  but  an  ineffectual  aunt  and  a  Trust  Company. 

But  she  did  not  suffer  for  lack  of  advice  as  to  the  con- 
duct of  her  life  or  of  her  affairs,  and  she  always  took  it 
with  the  sad  devotional  air  which  its  givers  had  learned 
meant  that  in  the  end  she  would  do  exactly  as  she  chose. 
And  so  the  Aunt  and  the  Trust  Company,  like  the  scan- 
dalized Titine,  ended  inevitably  in  silent  acquiescence. 

Of  her  acquaintances  much  might  be  said,  both  good 
and  bad.  They  represented  almost  every  phase  of  so- 
ciety from  the  objects  of  her  charities  (which  were  many 
and  often  unreasoning)  to  the  daughters  of  her  father's 
friends  who  belonged  in  her  own  sphere  of  existence.  And 
if  one's  character  may  be  judged  by  that  of  one's  friends, 

4 


Hermia  was  of  infinite  variety.  Perhaps  the  sportive  were 
most  often  in  her  company,  and  it  was  against  these  that 
Mrs.  Westfield  ineffectually  railed,  but  there  was  a  warmth 
in  her  affection  for  Gertrude  Brotherton,  who  liked  quiet 
people  as  a  rule  (and  made  Hermia  the  exception  to  prove 
it),  and  an  intellectual  flavor  in  her  attachment  for  An- 
gela Reeves,  who  was  interested  in  social  problems,  which 
more  than  compensated  for  Miss  Challoner's  intimacy  with 
those  of  a  gayer  sort. 

Her  notes  written,  she  dressed  for  the  morning,  then 
lay  back  in  her  chair  with  a  sharp  little  sigh  and  pen- 
sively touched  the  scratches  on  her  face,  her  expression 
falling  suddenly  into  lines  of  discontent.  It  was  a  kind 
of  reaction  which  frequently  followed  moments  of  intense 
activity  and,  realizing  its  significance,  she  yielded  to  it 
sulkily,  her  gaze  on  the  face  of  the  clock  which  was  tick- 
ing off  purposeless  minutes  with  maddening  precision. 
She  glanced  over  her  shoulder  in  relief  as  her  maid  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway. 

"Will  Mademoiselle  see  the  Countess  Tcherny  and 
Mees  Ashhurst?"  Titine  was  a  great  believer  in  social  dis- 
tinctions. 

"Olga !  Yes,  I  was  expecting  her.  Tell  them  to  come 
right  up." 

The  new  arrivals  entered  the  room  gayly  with  the 
breezy  assertiveness  of  persons  who  were  assured  of  their 
welcome  and  very  much  at  home.  Hilda  Ashhurst  was 
tall,  blonde,  aquiline  and  noisy;  the  Countess,  dainty, 
dark-eyed  and  svelte,  with  the  flexible  voice  which  spoke 
of  familiarity  with  many  tongues  and  rebuked  the  nasal 
greeting  of  her  more  florid  companion.  Hermia  met  them 
with  a  sigh.  Only  yesterday  Mrs.  Westfield  had  protested 
again  about  Hennia's  growing  intimacy  with  the  Countess, 

5 


MADCAP 

who  had  quite  innocently  taken  unto  herself  all  of  the 
fashionable  vices  of  polite  Europe. 

Hilda  Ashhurst  watched  Hermia's  expression  a  mo- 
ment and  then  laughed. 

"Been  catching  it — haven't  you?  PoorHermia!  It's 
dreadful  to  be  the  one  chick  in  a  family  of  ugly  duck- 
lings  " 

"Or  the  ugly  duckling  in  a  family  of  virtuous  chicks 

» 

"Not  ugly,  cherle"  laughed  the  Countess.  "One  is 
never  ugly  with  a  million  francs  a  year.  Such  a  fortune 
would  beautify  a  satyr.  It  even  makes  your  own  pretti- 
ness  unimportant." 

"It  is  unimportant " 

"Partly  because  you  make  it  so.  You  don't  care.  You 
don't  think  about  it,  voila  tout" 

"Why  should  I  think  about  it?    I  can't  change  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can.  Even  a  homely  woman  who  is 
clever  can  make  herself  beautiful,  a  beautiful  woman — 
Dieul  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  a  clever,  beauti- 
ful woman  cannot  be." 

"I'm  not  clever  or " 

"I  shall  not  flatter  you,  cara  mia.  You  are — er — 
quite  handsome  enough.  If  you  cared  for  the  artistic  you 
could  go  through  a  salon  like  the  Piper  of  Hamelin  with 
a  queue  of  gentlemen  reaching  back  into  the  corridors  of 
infinity.  Instead  of  which  you  wear  mannish  clothes,  do 
your  hair  in  a  Bath-bun,  and  permit  men  the  privilege  of 
equality.  Oh,  la,  la!  A  man  is  no  longer  useful  when 
one  ceases  to  mystify  him." 

She  strolled  to  the  window,  sniffed  at  Trewy  More- 
house's  roses,  helped  herself  to  a  cigarette  and  sat 
down. 

6 


HERMIA 

Hermia  was  not  inartistic  and  she  resented  the  impu- 
tation. It  was  only  that  her  art  and  Olga's  differed  by 
the  breadth  of  an  ocean. 

"For  me,  when  a  man  becomes  mystified  he  ceases  to 
be  useful,"  laughed  Hermia. 

"Pouf!  my  dear,"  said  the  Countess  with  a  wave  of 
her  cigarette.  "I  simply  do  not  believe  you.  A  man  is 
never  so  useful  as  when  he  moves  in  the  dark.  Women 
were  born  to  mystify.  Some  of  us  do  it  one  way — some 
in  another.  If  you  wear  mannish  clothes  and  a  Bath-bun, 
it  is  because  they  become  you  extraordinarily  well  and  be- 
cause they  form  a  disguise  more  complete  and  mystifying 
than  anything  else  you  could  assume." 

"A  disguise!" 

"Exactly.  You  wish  to  create  the  impression  that  you 
are  indifferent  to  men — that  men,  by  the  same  token,  are 
indifferent  to  you."  The  Countess  Olga  smiled.  "Your 
disguise  is  complete,  mon  enfant — except  for  one  thing — 
your  femininity — which  refuses  to  be  extinguished.  You 
do  not  hate  men.  If  you  did  you  would  not  go  to  so 
much  trouble  to  look  like  them.  One  day  you  will  love 

very  badly — very  madly.     And  then "  the  Countess 

paused  and  raised  her  eyebrows  and  her  hands  express- 
ively. "You're  like  me.  It's  simple  enough,"  she  con- 
tinued. "You  have  everything  you  want,  including 
men  who  amuse  but  do  not  inspire.  Obviously,  you 
will  only  be  satisfied  with  something  you  can't  get,  my 
dear." 

"Horrors !  What  a  bird  of  ill-omen  you  are.  And  I 
shall  love  in  vain?" 

The  Countess  snuffed  out  her  cigarette  daintily  upon 
the  ash  tray. 

"Can  one  love  in  vain?    Perhaps. 

7 


MADCAP 

"  'Aimer  pour  etre  aime,  c'est  de  Vhomme, 
Aimer  pour  aimer,  c'est  presque  de  range.' ' 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  that  kind  of  an  angel." 

Hilda  Ashhurst  laughed. 

"Olga  is." 

"Olga !"  exclaimed  Hermia  with  a  glance  of  inquiry. 

"Haven't  you  heard?  She  has  thrown  her  young  af- 
fections away  upon  that  owl-like  nondescript  who  has 
been  doing  her  portrait." 

"I  can't  believe  it." 

"It's  true,"  said  the  Countess  calmly.  "I  am  quite 
mad  about  him.  He  has  the  mind  of  a  philosopher,  the 
soul  of  a  child,  the  heart  of  a  woman " 

" the  manners  of  a  boor  and  the  impudence  of  the 


devil,"  added  Hilda  spitefully. 

Hermia  laughed  but  the  Countess  Olga's  narrowed 
eyes  passed  Hilda  scornfully. 

"Any  one  can  have  good  manners.  They're  the  hall- 
mark of  mediocrity.  And  as  for  impudence — that  is  the 
one  sin  a  man  may  commit  which  a  woman  forgives." 

"7  can't,"  said  Hilda. 

The  Countess  Olga's  right  shoulder  moved  towarcl  her 
ear  the  fraction  of  an  inch. 

"He's  hateful,  Hermia,"  continued  Hilda  quickly,  "a 
gorilla  of  a  man,  with  a  lowering  brow,  untidy  hair,  and 
a  blue  chin " 

"He  is  adorable,"  insisted  Olga. 

"How  very  interesting !"  laughed  Hermia.  "An  ador- 
able philosopher,  with  the  impudence  of  the  devil,  and 
the  blue  chin  of  a  gorilla !  When  did  you  meet  this  logi- 
cal— the  zoological  paradox?" 

"Oh,  in  Paris.  I  knew  him  only  slightly,  but  he  moved 

8 


HERMIA 


in  a  set  whose  edges  touched  mine — the  talented  people  of 
mine.  He  had  already  made  his  way.  He  has  been  back 
in  America  only  a  year.  We  met  early  in  the  winter  quite 
by  chance.  You  know  the  rest.  He  has  painted  my  por- 
trait— a  really  great  portrait.  You  shall  see." 

"Oh,  it  was  this  morning  we  were  going,  wasn't  it? 
I'll  be  ready  in  a  moment,  dear." 

"But  Hilda  shall  be  left  in  the  shopping  district,"  fin- 
ished Olga. 

"By  all  means,"  said  Miss  Ashhurst  scornfully. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE   GORILLA 

OF  all  her  friends  Olga  Tcherny  was  the  one  who 
amused  and  entertained  Hermia  the  most.  She 
was  older  than  Hermia,  much  more  experienced 
and  to  tell  the  truth  quite  as  mad  in  her  own  way  as 
Hermia  was.  There  were  times  when  even  Hermia  could 
not  entirely  approve  of  her,  but  she  forgave  her  much 
because  she  was  herself  and  because,  no  matter  what  de- 
pended upon  it,  she  could  not  be  different  if  she  tried. 
Olga  Egerton  had  been  born  in  Russia,  where  her  father 
had  been  called  as  consulting  engineer  of  the  railway  de- 
partment of  the  Russian  Government.  Though  American 
born,  the  girl  had  been  educated  according  to  the  Euro- 
pean fashion  and  at  twenty  had  married  and  lost  the 
young  nobleman  whose  name  she  bore,  and  had  buried 
him  in  his  family  crypt  in  Moscow  with  the  simple  forti- 
tude of  one  who  is  well  out  of  a  bad  bargain.  But  she 
had  paid  her  toll  to  disillusion  and  the  age  of  thirty 
found  her  a  little  more  careless,  a  little  more  worldly- 
wise  than  was  necessary,  even  in  a  cosmopolitan.  Her 
comments  spared  neither  friend  nor  foe  and  Hilda  Ash- 
hurst,  whose  mind  grasped  only  the  obvious  facts  of  ex- 
istence, came  in  for  more  than  a  share  of  the  lady's 
invective. 

Indeed,  Markham,  the  painter,  seemed  this  morning 
to  be  the  only  luminous  spot  on  the  Countess  Olga's  social 

10 


THE    GORILLA 


horizon  and  by  the  time  the  car  had  reached  lower  Fifth 
Avenue  she  had  related  most  of  the  known  facts  of  his 
character  and  career  including  his  struggle  for  recogni- 
tion in  Europe,  his  revolutionary  attitude  toward  the  Art 
of  the  Academies  as  well  as  toward  modern  society,  and 
the  consequent  and  self-sought  isolation  which  deprived 
him  of  the  intercourse  of  his  fellows  and  seriously  retarded 
his  progress  toward  a  success  that  his  professional  talents 
undoubtedly  merited. 

Hermia  listened  with  an  abstracted  air.  Artists  she 
remembered  were  a  race  of  beings  quite  apart  from  the 
rest  of  humanity  and  with  the  exception  of  a  few  money- 
seeking  foreigners,  one  of  whom  had  painted  her  portrait, 
and  Teddy  Vincent,  a  New  Yorker  socially  prominent 
(who  was  unspeakable),  her  acquaintance  with  the  cult 
had  been  limited  and  unfavorable.  When,  therefore,  her 
car  drew  alongside  the  curb  of  the  old-fashioned  building 
to  which  Olga  directed  the  chauffeur,  Hermia  was  already 
prepared  to  dislike  Mr.  Markham  cordially.  She  had  not 
always  cared  for  Olga's  friends. 

There  was  no  elevator  in  the  building  before  which 
they  stopped,  and  the  two  women  mounted  the  stairs, 
avoiding  both  the  wall  and  the  dusty  baluster,  contact 
with  either  of  which  promised  to  defile  their  white  gloves, 
reaching,  somewhat  out  of  breath,  a  door  with  a  Floren- 
tine knocker  bearing  the  name  "Markham." 

Olga  knocked.  There  was  no  response.  She  knocked 
again  while  Hermia  waited,  a  question  on  her  lips.  There 
was  a  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  and  the  door  was  flung 
open  wide  and  a  big  man  with  rumpled  hair,  a  well-smeared 
painting-smock  and  wearing  a  huge  pair  of  tortoise-shell 
goggles  peered  out  into  the  dark  hall-way,  blurting  out 
impatiently, 

11 


MADCAP 

"I'm  very  busy.  I  don't  need  any  models.  Come  an- 
other day " 

He  was  actually  on  the  point  of  banging  the  door  in 
their  faces  when  the  Countess  interposed. 

"Such  hospitality!" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Markham  paused,  the  huge 
palette  and  brushes  suspended  in  the  air. 

"Oh,"  he  murmured  in  some  confusion.  "It's  you, 
Madame " 

"It  is.  Very  cross  and  dusty  after  the  climb  up  your 
filthy  stairs — I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  used  to  this  kind  of 
welcome  but  I'm  not,  somehow.  Besides,  I'm  bringing  a 
visitor,  and  had  hoped  to  find  you  in  a  pleasanter  mood." 

He  showed  his  white  teeth  as  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  Lord !  Pleasant !"  And  then  as  an  afterthought, 
very  frankly,  "I  don't  suppose  I  am  very  pleasant !"  He 
stood  aside  bowing  as  Hermia  emerged  from  the  shadows 
and  Olga  Tcherny  presented  him.  It  was  a  stiff  bow, 
rather  awkward  and  impatient  and  revealed  quite  plainly 
his  disappointment  at  her  presence,  but  Hermia  followed 
Olga  into  the  room  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head, 
conscious  that  in  the  moment  that  his  eyes  passed  over 
[her  they  made  a  brief  note  which  classified  her  among 
the  unnecessary  nuisances  to  which  busy  geniuses  must 
be  subjected. 

Olga  Tcherny,  who  had  now  taken  full  possession  of 
the  studio,  fell  into  its  easiest  chair  and  looked  up  at  the 
painter  with  her  caressing  smile. 

"You've  been  working.  You've  got  the  fog  of  it  on 
you.  Are  we  de  trop?" 

"Er — no.  It's  in  rather  a  mess  here,  that's  all.  I 
was  working,  but  I'm  quite  willing  to  stop." 

"I'm  afraid  you've  no  further  wish  for  me  now  that 

12 


THE   GORILLA 


I'm  no  longer  useful,"  she  sighed.  "You're  not  going  to 
discard  me  so  easily.  Besides,  we're  not  going  to  stay 
long — only  a  minute.  I  was  hoping  Miss  Challoner  could 
see  the  portrait." 

He  glanced  at  Hermia  almost  resentfully,  and  fidgeted 
with  his  brushes. 

"Yes — of  course.  It's  the  least  I  can  do — isn't  it? 
The  portrait  isn't  finished.  It's  dried  in,  too — but " 

He  laid  his  palette  slowly  down  and  wiped  his  brushes 
carefully  on  a  piece  of  cheese-cloth,  put  a  canvas  in  a 
frame  upon  the  easel  and  shoved  it  forward  into  a  better 
light. 

Hermia  followed  his  movements  curiously,  sure  that 
he  was  the  most  inhospitable  human  being  upon  whom 
two  pretty  women  had  ever  condescended  to  call,  and 
stood  uncomfortably,  realizing  that  he  had  not  even  of- 
fered her  a  chair.  But  when  the  portrait  was  turned 
toward  the  light,  she  forgot  everything  but  the  canvas 
before  her. 

It  was  not  the  Olga  Tcherny  that  people  knew  best — 
the  gay,  satirical  mondaine,  who  exacted  from  a  world 
which  had  denied  her  happiness  her  pound  of  flesh  and 
called  it  pleasure.  The  Olga  Tcherny  which  looked  at 
Hermia  from  the  canvas  was  the  one  that  Hermia  had 
glimpsed  in  the  brief  moments  between  bitterness  and 
frivolity,  a  woman  with  a  soul  which  in  spite  of  her  still 
dreamed  of  the  things  it  had  been  denied. 

It  was  a  startling  portrait,  bold  almost  to  the  point 
of  brutality,  and  even  Hermia  recognized  its  individuality, 
wondering  at  the  capacity  for  analysis  which  had  made 
the  painter's  delineation  of  character  so  remarkable,  and 
his  brush  so  unerring.  She  stole  another — a  more  curious 
• — glance  at  him.  The  hideous  goggles  and  the  rumpled 

13 


MADCAP 

hair  could  not  disguise  the  strong  lines  of  his  face  which 
she  saw  in  profile — the  heavy  brows,  the  straight  nose,  the 
thin,  rather  sensitive  lips  and  the  strong,  cleanly  cut  chin. 
Properly  dressed  and  valeted  this  queer  creature  might 
have  been  made  presentable.  But  his  manners  !  No  valet- 
ing or  grooming  could  ever  make  such  a  man  a  gentle- 
man. 

If  he  was  aware  of  her  scrutiny  he  gave  no  sign  of  it 
and  leaned  forward  intently,  his  gaze  on  the  portrait — < 
alone,  to  all  appearances,  with  the  fires  of  his  genius. 
Hermia's  eyes  followed  his,  the  superficial  and  rather 
frivolous  comment  which  had  been  on  her  lips  stilled  for 
the  moment  by  the  dignity  of  his  mental  attitude,  into 
which  it  seemed  Olga  Tcherny  had  also  unconsciously 
fallen.  But  the  silence  irritated  Hermia — the  wrapt, 
absorbed  attitudes  of  the  man  and  the  woman  and  the  air 
of  sacro-sanctity  which  pervaded  the  place.  It  was  like 
a  ceremonial  in  which  this  queer  animal  was  being  deified. 
She,  at  least,  wouldn't  deify  him. 

"It's  like  you  Olga,  of  course,"  she  said  flippantly, 
"but  it's  not  at  all  pretty." 

The  words  fell  sharply  and  Markham  and  the  Countess 
turned  toward  the  Philistine  who  stood  with  her  head 
cocked  on  one  side,  her  arms  a-kimbo.  Markham's  eyes 
peered  forward  somberly  for  a  moment  and  he  spoke  with 
slow  gravity. 

"I  don't  paint  'pretty'  portraits,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Markham  means,  Hermia,  that  he  doesn't  be- 
lieve in  artistic  lies,"  said  Olga  smoothly. 

"And  I  contend,"  Hermia  went  on  undaunted,  "that 
it's  an  artistic  lie  not  to  paint  you  as  pretty  as  you  are." 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Markham  doesn't  think  me  as  pretty 
as  you  do " 


THE   GORILL'A 


Markham  bowed  his  head  as  though  to  absolve  him- 
self from  the  guilt  suggested. 

"I  try  not  to  think  in  terms  of  prettiness,"  he  ex- 
plained slowly.  "Had  you  been  merely  pretty  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  attempted " 

"But  isn't  the  mission  of  Art  to  beautify — to 
adorn ?"  broke  in  Hermia,  mercilessly  bromidic. 

Markham  turned  and  looked  at  her  as  though  he  had 
suddenly  discovered  the  presence  of  an  insect  which 
needed  extermination. 

"My  dear  young  lady,  the  mission  of  Art  is  to  tell  the 
truth,"  he  growled.  "When  I  find  it  impossible  to  do 
that,  I  shall  take  up  another  trade." 

"Oh,"  said  Hermia,  enjoying  herself  immensely.  "I 
didn't  mean  to  discourage  you." 

"I  don't  really  think  that  you  have,"  put  in  Mark- 
ham. 

Olga  Tcherny  laughed  from  her  chair  in  a  bored 
amusement. 

"Hermia,  dear,"  she  said  dryly,  "I  hardly  brought  you 
here  to  deflect  the  orbit  of  genius.  Poor  Mr.  Markham! 
I  shudder  to  think  of  his  disastrous  career  if  it  depended 
upon  your  approval." 

Hermia  opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  paused  and  then 
glanced  at  Markham.  His  thoughts  were  turned  inward 
again  and  excluded  her  completely.  Indeed  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  he  remembered  what  she  had  been 
talking  about.  In  addition  to  being  unpardonably  rude, 
he  now  simply  ignored  her.  His  manner  enraged  her. 

"Perhaps  my  opinion  doesn't  matter  to  Mr.  Mark- 
ham,"  she  probed  with  icy  distinctness.  "Nevertheless, 
I  represent  the  public  which  judges  pictures  and  buys 
them.  Which  orders  portraits  and  pays  for  them.  It's 

15 


MADCAP  

my  opinion  that  counts — my  money  upon  which  the  fash- 
ionable portrait  painter  must  depend  for  his  success.  He 
must  please  me  or  people  like  me  and  the  way  to  please 
most  easily  is  to  paint  me  as  I  ought  to  be  rather  than  as 
I  am." 

Markham  slowly  turned  so  that  he  faced  her  and 
eyed  her  with  a  puzzled  expression  as  he  caught  the 
meaning  of  her  remarks,  more  personal  and  arrogant 
than  his  brief  acquaintance  with  her  seemed  in  any  way 
to  warrant. 

"I'm  not  a  fashionable  portrait  painter,  thank  God," 
he  said  with  some  warmth.  "Fortunately  I'm  not  obliged 
to  depend  upon  the  whims  or  upon  the  money  of  the 
people  whose  judgment  you  consider  so  important  to  an 
artistic  success.  I  have  no  interest  in  the  people  who 
compose  fashionable  society,  nor  in  their  money  nor  their 
aims,  ideals  or  the  lack  of  them.  I  paint  what  interests 
me — and  shall  continue  to  do  so." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed  toward  Olga. 
"What's  the  use,  Madame  ?  In  a  moment  I  shall  be  telling 
Miss — er " 

"Challoner,"  said  Hermia. 

"I  shall  be  telling  Miss  Challoner  what  I  think  of  New 
York  society — and  of  the  people  who  compose  it.  That 
would  be  unfortunate." 

"Well,  rather,"  said  Olga  wearily.  "Don't,  I  beg. 
Life's  too  short.  Must  you  break  our  pretty  faded  but- 
terfly on  the  wheel?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  aside. 

"Not  if  it  jars  upon  your  sensibilities.  I  have  no 
quarrel  with  your  society.  One  only  quarrels  with  an 
enemy  or  with  a  friend.  To  me  society  is  neither."  He 
smiled  at  Hermia  amusedly.  "Society  may  have  its  opin- 

16 


THE   GORILLA 


ion  of  my  utility  and  may  express  it  freely — unchal- 
lenged." 

"I  don't  challenge  your  utility,"  replied  Hermia 
tartly.  "I  merely  question  your  point  of  view.  You  do 
not  see  couleur  de  rose,  Mr.  Markham." 

"No.     Life  is  not  that  color." 

"Oh,  la  la !"  from  Olga.  "Life  is  any  color  one  wishes, 
and  sometimes  the  color  one  does  not  wish.  Very  pale 
at  times,  gray,  yellow  and  at  times  red — oh,  so  red!  The 
soul  is  the  chameleon  which  absorbs  and  reflects  it.  To- 
day," she  sighed,  "my  chameleon  has  taken  a  vacation." 

She  rose  abruptly  and  threw  out  her  arms  with  a 
dramatic  gesture. 

"Oh,  you  two  infants — with  your  wise  talk  of  life — you 
have  already  depressed  me  to  the  point  of  dissolution. 
I've  no  patience  with  you — with  either  of  you.  You've 
spoiled  my  morning,  and  I'll  not  stay  here  another  min- 
ute." She  reached  for  her  trinkets  on  the  table  and  rat- 
tled them  viciously.  "It's  too  bad.  With  the  best  in- 
tentions in  the  world  I  bring  two  of  my  friends  together 
and  they  fall  instantly  into  verbal  fisticuffs.  Hermia,  you 
deserve  no  better  fate  than  to  be  locked  in  here  with  this 
bear  of  a  man  until  you  both  learn  civility." 

But  Hermia  had  already  preceded  the  Countess  to 
the  door,  whither  Markham  followed  them. 

"I  should  be  charmed,"  said  Markham. 

"To  learn  civility?"  asked  Hermia  acidly. 

"I  might  even  learn  that " 

"It  is  inconceivable,"  put  in  the  Countess.  "You 
know,  Markham,  I  don't  mind  your  being  bearish  with 
me.  In  fact,  I've  taken  it  as  the  greatest  of  compliments. 
I  thought  that  humor  of  yours  was  my  special  prerogative 
of  friendship.  But  now  alas !  When  I  see  how  uncivil 

17 


MADCAP 


you  can  be  to  others  I  have  a  sense  of  lost  caste.  And 
you — instead  of  being  amusingly  whimsical  and  entete 
— are  in  danger  of  becoming  merely  bourgeois.  I  warn 
you  now  that  if  you  plan  to  be  uncivil  to  everybody — I 
shall  give  you  up." 

Markham  and  Hermia  laughed.  They  couldn't  help 
it.  She  was  too  absurd. 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  won't  do  that,"  pleaded  Markham. 

"I'm  capable  of  unheard  of  cruelties  to  those  who 
incur  my  displeasure.  I  may  even  bring  Miss  Challoner 
in  to  call  again." 

Markham,  protesting,  followed  them  to  the  door. 
"Au  revoir,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Countess. 

Markham  bowed  in  the  general  direction  of  the 
shadow  in  the  hallway  into  which  Miss  Challoner  had  van- 
ished and  then  turned  back  and  took  up  his  palette  and 
brushes. 


CHAPTER    IH 

THE   INEFFECTUAL  AUNT 

THE  two  women  had  hardly  reached  the  limousine 
before  the  vials  of  Hermia's  wrath  were  opened. 
"What  a  dreadful  person!  Olga,  how  could 
you  have  stood  him  all  the  while  he  painted  you?" 

"We  made  out  very  nicely,  thank  you." 

"Hilda  was  right.  He  is  a  gorilla.  Do  you  know 
he  never  even  offered  me  a  chair?" 

"I  suppose  he  thought  you'd  have  sense  enough  to  sit 
down  if  you  wanted  to." 

"O  Olga,  don't  quibble.    He's  impossible." 

The  Countess  shrugged. 

"It's  a  matter  of  taste." 

"Taste !  One  doesn't  want  to  be  affronted.  Is  he  like 
this  to  every  one?" 

"No.  That's  just  the  point.  He  isn't.  I  think, 
Hermia,  dear,"  and  she  laughed,  "that  he  didn't  like 
you." 

"Me!    Why  not?" 

"He  doesn't  like  Bath-buns.  He  once  told  me  so.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  think  he's  altogether  in  sympathy  with  the 
things  you  typify." 

"How  does  he  know  what  I  typify — when  I  don't  know 
myself?  I  don't  typify  anything." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do,  to  a  man  like  Markham.  From  the 
eyrie  where  his  soul  is  wont  to  sit,  John  Markham  has  a 
fine  perspective  on  life — yours  and  mine.  But  I  imagine 

19 


that  you  make  the  more  conspicuous  silhouette.  To  him 
you  represent  'the  New  York  Idea' — only  more  so.  Be- 
sides that  you're  a  vellum  edition  of  the  Feminist  Move- 
ment with  suffrage  expurgated.  In  other  words,  darling, 
to  a  lonely  and  somewhat  morbid  philosopher  like  Mark- 
ham  you're  a  horrible  example  of  what  may  become  of  a 
female  person  of  liberal  views  who  has  had  the  world 
suddenly  laid  in  her  lap ;  the  spoiled  child  launched  into 
the  full  possession  of  a  fabulous  fortune  with  no  ambition 
more  serious  than  to  become  the  'champeen  lady-aviator 
of  Madison  Avenue '  ' 

"Olga !    You're  horrid,"  broke  in  Hermia. 

"I  know  it.  It's  the  reaction  from  a  morning  which 
began  too  cheerfully.  I  think  I'll  leave  you  now,  if  you'll 
drop  me  at  the  Blouse  Shop " 

"But  I  thought  we  were  going " 

"No.     Not  this  morning.     The  mood  has  passed." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Hermia. 

The  two  pecked  each  other  just  below  the  eye  after 
the  manner  of  women  and  the  Countess  departed,  while 
Hermia  quizzically  watched  her  graceful  back  until  it  had 
disappeared  in  the  shadows  of  the  store.  The  current 
that  usually  flowed  between  them  was  absent  now,  so 
Hermia  let  her  go ;  for  Olga  Tcherny,  when  in  this  mood, 
wore  an  armor  which  Hermia,  clever  as  she  thought  her- 
self, had  never  been  able  to  penetrate. 

Hermia  continued  on  her  way  uptown,  aware  that  the 
change  in  the  Countess  Olga  was  due  to  intangible  in- 
fluences which  she  could  not  define  but  which  she  was  sure 
had  something  to  do  with  the  odious  person  whose  studio 
she  had  visited.  Could  it  be  that  Olga  really  cared  for 
this  queer  Markham  of  the  goggled  eyes,  this  absent- 
minded,  self-centered  creature,  who  rumpled  his  hair3 

20 


THE   INEFFECTUAL   AUNT 

smoked  a  pipe  and  growled  his  cheap  philosophy?  A 
pose,  of  course,  aimed  this  morning  at  Hcrmia.  He  flat- 
tered her.  She  felt  obliged  for  the  line  of  demarcation 
he  had  so  carefully  drawn  between  his  life  and  hers.  As 
if  she  needed  the  challenge  of  his  impudence  to  become 
aware  of  it!  And  yet  in  her  heart  she  found  herself  de- 
nying that  his  impudence  had  irritated  her  less  than  his 
indifference.  To  tell  the  truth,  Hermia  did  not  like  being 
ignored.  It  was  the  first  time  in  fact,  that  any  man  had 
ignored  her,  and  she  did  not  enjoy  the  sensation.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders  carelessly  and  glanced  out  of  the 
window  of  her  car — and  to  be  ignored  by  such  a  person 
as  this  grubby  painter — it  was  maddening!  She  thought 
of  him  as  "grubby,"  whatever  that  meant,  because  she 
did  not  like  him,  but  it  was  even  more  maddening  for  her 
to  think  of  Olga  Tcherny's  portrait,  which,  in  spite  of  her 
flippant  remarks,  she  had  been  forced  to  admit  revealed 
a  knowledge  of  feminine  psychology  that  had  excited  her 
amazement  and  admiration. 

One  deduction  led  to  another.  She  found  herself  won- 
dering what  kind  of  a  portrait  this  Markham  would  make 
of  her,  whether  he  would  see,  as  he  had  seen  in  Olga — the 
things  that  lay  below  the  surface — the  dreams  that  came, 
the  aspirations,  half-formed,  toward  something  different, 
the  moments  of  revulsion  at  the  emptiness  of  her  life, 
which,  in  spite  of  the  material  benefits  it  possessed,  was, 
after  all,  only  material.  Would  he  paint  those — the 
shadows  as  well  as  the  lights?  Or  would  he  see  her  as 
Marsac,  the  Frenchman,  had  seen  her,  the  pretty,  irre- 
sponsible child  of  fortune  who  lived  only  for  others  who 
were  as  gay  as  herself  with  no  more  serious  purpose  in 
life  than  to  become,  as  Olga  had  said,  "the  champeen 
lady-aviator  of  Madison  Avenue." 

21 


MADCAP 


Hermia  lunched  alone — out  of  humor  with  all  the 
world — and  went  upstairs  with  a  volume  of  plays  which 
had  just  come  from  the  stationer.  But  she  had  hardly 
settled  herself  comfortably  when  Titine  announced  Mrs. 
Westfield. 

It  was  the  ineffectual  Aunt. 

"Oh,  yes,"  with  an  air  of  resignation,  "tell  Mrs.  West- 
field  to  come  up." 

She  pulled  the  hair  over  her  temples  to  conceal  the 
scars  of  her  morning's  accident  and  met  Mrs.  Westfield 
at  the  landing  outside. 

"Dear  Aunt  Harriet.  So  glad,"  she  said,  grimacing 
cheerfully  to  salve  her  conscience.  "What  have  I  been 
doing  now?" 

"What  haven't  you  been  doing,  child?" 

The  good  lady  sank  into  a  chair,  the  severe  lines  in 
her  face  more  than  usually  acidulous,  but  Hermia  only 
smiled  sweetly,  for  Mrs.  Westfield's  forbidding  aspect,  as 
she  well  knew,  concealed  the  most  indulgent  of  disposi- 
tions. 

"Playing  polo  with  men,  racing  in  your  motor  and 
getting  yourself  talked  about  in  the  papers !  Really, 
Hermia,  what  will  you  be  doing  next  ?" 

"Flying,"  said  Hermia. 

Mrs.  Westfield  hesitated  between  a  gasp  and  a  smile. 

"I  don't  doubt  it.    You  are  quite  capable  of  anything 

)nly  your  wings  will  not  be  sent  from  Heaven- 


"No — from  Paris.    I'm  going  to  have  a  Bleriot." 
"Do   you   actually   mean   that   you're   going   to — O 

Hermia!     Not  fly /" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  am,  Auntie.    It's  the  sporting  thing. 


THE   INEFFECTUAL   AUNT 

You  knoT7  I  never  could  bear  having  Reggie  Armistead 
do  anything  I  couldn't.  Every  one  will  be  doing  it  soon." 

"I  can't  believe  that  you're  in  earnest." 

"I  am,  awfully." 

"But  the  danger !    You  must  realize  that !" 

"I  do — that's  what  attracts  me."  She  got  up  and  put 
her  arms  around  Mrs.  Westfield's  neck.  "O  Auntie,  dear, 
don't  bother.  I'm  absolutely  impossible  anyway.  I  can't 
be  happy  doing  the  things  that  other  girls  do,  and  you 
might  as  well  let  me  have  my  own  way " 

"But  flying " 

"It's  as  simple  as  child's  play.  If  you'd  ever  done  it 
you'd  wonder  how  people  would  ever  be  content  to  motor 
or  ride " 

"You've  been  up ?" 

"Last  week  at  Garden  City.    I'm  crazy  about  it." 

"Yes,  child,  crazy — mad.  I've  done  what  I  could  to 
keep  your  amusements  within  the  bounds  of  reason  and 
without  avail,  but  I  wouldn't  be  doing  my  duty  to  your 
sainted  mother  if  I  didn't  try  to  save  you  from  yourself. 
I  shall  do  something  to  prevent  this — this  madcap  ven- 
ture— I  don't  know  what.  I  shall  see  Mr.  Winthrop  at 
the  Trust  Company.  There  must  be  some  way ' 

The  pendants  in  the  good  lady's  ears  trembled  in  the 
light,  and  her  hand  groped  for  her  handkerchief.  "You 
can't,  Hermia.  I'll  not  permit  it.  I'll  get  out  an  injunc- 
tion— or  something.  It  was  all  very  well  when  you  were  a 
child — but  now — do  you  realize  that  you're  a  woman,  a 
grown  woman,  with  responsibilities  to  the  community? 
It's  time  that  you  married,  settled  down  and  took  your 
proper  place  in  New  York.  I  had  hoped  that  you  would 
have  matured  and  forgotten  the  childish  pastimes  of  your 
girlhood  but  now — now " 

23 


MADCAP          

Mrs.  Westfield,  having  found  her  handkerchief,  wept 
into  it,  her  emotions  too  deep  for  other  expression,  while 
Hermia,  now  really  moved,  sank  at  her  feet  upon  the 
floor,  her  arms  about  her  Aunt's  shoulders,  and  tried  to 
comfort  her. 

"I'm  not  the  slightest  use  in  the  world,  Auntie,  dear. 
I  haven't  a  single  homely  virtue  to  recommend  me.  I'm 
only  fit  to  ride  and  dance  and  motor  and  frivol.  And 
whom  should  I  marry?  Surely  not  Reggie  Armistead  or 
Crosby  Downs !  Reggie  and  I  have  always  fought  like 
cats  across  a  wire,  and  as  for  Crosby — I  would  as  lief 
marry  the  great  Cham  of  Tartary.  No,  dear,  I'm  not 
ready  for  marriage  yet.  I  simply  couldn't.  There,  there, 
don't  cry.  You've  done  your  duty.  I'm  not  worth  both- 
ering about.  I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  dreadful. 
And  besides — you  know  if  anything  did  happen  to  me,  the 
money  would  go  to  Millicent  and  Theodore." 

"I — I  don't  want  anything  to  happen  to  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Westfield,  weeping  anew. 

"Nothing  will — you  know  I'm  not  hankering  to  die — 
but  I  don't  mind  taking  a  sporting  chance  with  a  game 
like  that." 

"But  what  good  can  it  possibly  do  ?" 

Hermia  Challoner  laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "My  dear 
Auntie,  my  life  has  not  been  planned  with  reference  to 
the  ultimate  possible  good.  I'm  a  renegade  if  you  like, 
a  hoyden  with  a  shrewd  sense  of  personal  morality  but 
with  no  other  sense  whatever.  I  was  born  under  a  mad 
moon  with  some  wild  humor  in  my  blood  from  an  earlier 
incarnation  and  I  can't — I  simply  can't  be  conventional. 
I've  tried  doing  as  other — and  nicer — girls  do  but  it 
wearies  me  to  the  point  of  distraction.  Their  lives  are  so 
pale,  so  empty,  so  full  of  pretensions.  They  have  always 


THE   INEFFECTUAL 


seemed  so.  When  I  used  to  romp  like  a  boy  my  elders 
told  me  it  was  an  unnatural  way  for  little  girls  to  play. 
But  I  kept  on  romping.  If  it  hadn't  been  natural  I 
shouldn't  have  romped.  Perhaps  Sybil  Trenchard  is  nat- 
ural —  or  Caroline  Anstell.  They're  conventional  girls  — 
automatic  parts  of  the  social  machinery,  eating,  sleeping, 
decking  themselves  for  the  daily  round,  mere  things  of 
sex,  their  whole  life  planned  so  that  they  may  make  a 
desirable  marriage.  Good  Lord,  Auntie  !  And  whom  will 
they  marry?  Fellows  like  Archie  Westcott  or  Carol 
Gouverneur,  fellows  with  notorious  habits  which  marriage 
is  not  likely  to  mend.  How  could  it?  No  one  expects  it 
to.  The  girls  who  marry  men  like  that  get  what  they  bar- 
gain for  —  looks  for  money  —  money  for  looks  -  " 

"But  Trevelyan  Morehouse!" 

Hermia  paused  and  examined  the  roses  in  the  silver 
vase  with  a  quizzical  air. 

"If  I  were  not  so  rich,  I  should  probably  love  Trewy 
madly.  But,  you  see,  then  Trewy  wouldn't  love  me.  He 
couldn't  afford  to.  He's  ruining  himself  with  roses  as  it 
is.  And,  curiously  enough,  I  have  a  notion  when  I  marry,, 
to  love  —  and  be  loved  for  myself  alone.  I'm  not  in  love 
with  Trewy  or  any  one  else  —  or  likely  to  be.  The  man  I 
marry,  Auntie,  isn't  doing  what  Trewy  and  Crosby  and 
Reggie  Armistead  are  doing.  He's  different  somehow  —  • 
different  from  any  man  I've  ever  met." 

"How,  child?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  mused,  with  a  smile.  "Only  he 
isn't  like  Trewy  Morehouse." 

"But  Mr.  Morehouse  is  a  very  promising  young 
man  -  " 

"The  person  I  marry  won't  be  a  promising  young 
man.  Promising  young  men  continually  remind  me  of  my 

25 


MADCAP 

r— — — •  ~ 

own  deficiencies.  Imagine  domesticating  a  critic  like  that, 
marrying  a  mirror  for  one's  foibles  and  being  able  to  see 
nothing  else.  No,  thanks." 

"Whom  will  you  marry  then?"  sighed  Mrs.  Westfield 
resignedly. 

Hermia  Challoner  caught  her  by  the  arm.  "Oh,  I 
don't  know — only  he  isn't  the  kind  of  man  who'd  send  me 
roses.  I  think  he's  something  between  a  pilgrim  and  a 
vagabond,  a  knight-errant  from  somewhere  between 
Heaven  and  the  true  Bohemia,  a  despiser  of  shams  and 
vanities,  a  man  so  much  bigger  than  I  am  that  he  can 
make  me  what  he  is — in  spite  of  himself." 

"Hermia!  A  Bohemian!  Such  a  person  will  hardly 
be  found " 

"0  Auntie,  you  don't  understand.  I'm  not  likely  to 
find  him.  I'm  not  even  looking  for  him,  you  know,  and 
just  now  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody." 

"I  only  hope  when  you  do,  Hermia,  that  you  will  com- 
mit no  imprudence,"  said  Mrs.  Westfield  severely. 

Hermia  turned  quickly. 

"Auntie,  Captain  Lundt  of  the  Kaiser  Wilhelm  used 
to  tell  me  that  there  were  two  ways  of  going  into  a  fog," 
she  said.  "One  was  to  go  slow  and  use  the  siren.  The 
other  was  to  crowd  on  steam  and  go  like  h ." 

"Hermia!" 

"I'm  sorry,  Auntie,  but  that  describes  the  situation 
exactly.  I'm  too  wealthy  to  risk  marrying  prudently. 
I'd  have  to  find  a  man  who  was  as  prudent  as  I  was,  which 
means  that  he'd  be  marrying  me  for  my  money — 

"That  doesn't  follow.    You're  pretty,  attractive — 

"Oh,  thanks.  I  know  what  I  am.  I'm  an  animated 
dollar  mark,  a  financial  abnormity,  with  just  about  as 
much  chance  of  being  loved  for  myself  alone  as  a  fox  in 

26 


THE   INEFFECTUAL   AUNT 

November.  When  men  used  to  propose  to  me  I  halted 
them,  pressed  their  hands,  bade  them  be  happy  and  wept 
a  tear  or  two  for  the  thing  that  could  not  be.  Now  I  fix 
them  with  a  cold  appraising  eye  and  let  them  stammer 
through  to  the  end.  I've  learned  something.  The  pos- 
session of  money  may  have  its  disadvantages,  but  it  sharp- 
ens one's  wits  amazingly." 

"I'm  afraid  it  sharpens  them  too  much,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Westfield  coldly.  She  looked  around  the  room  help- 
lessly as  if  seeking  in  some  mute  object  tangible  evidence 
of  her  niece's  sanity. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  finished.  "I  shall  hope  and  pray  for  a 
miracle  to  bring  you  to  your  senses."  And  then,  "What 
have  you  planned  for  the  spring?" 

"I'm  going  to  'Wake-Robin'  first.  By  next  week  my 
aerodrome  will  be  finished.  My  machine  is  promised  by 
the  end  of  May.  They're  sending  a  perfectly  reliable 
mechanician " 

"Reliable — in  the  air !    Imagine  it !" 

" — and  I'll  be  flying  in  a  month." 

The  good  lady  rose  and  Hermia  watched  her  with  an 
expression  in  which  relief  and  guilt  were  strangely  min- 
gled. Her  conscience  always  smote  her  after  one  of  her 
declarations  of  independence  to  her  Aunt,  whose  mild- 
ness and  ineptitude  in  the  unequal  struggle  always  left  the 
girl  with  an  unpleasant  sense  of  having  taken  a  mean 
advantage  of  a  helpless  adversary.  To  Hermia  Mrs. 
Westfield's  greatest  effectiveness  was  when  she  was  most 
ineffectual. 

"There's  nothing  more  for  me  to  say,  I  suppose,"  said 
Mrs.  Westfield. 

"Nothing  except  that  you  approve,"  pleaded  her  niece 
wistfully. 

27 


MADCAP 


"I'll  never  do  that,"  icily.  "I  don't  approve  of  you  at 
ill.  Why  should  I  mince  matters?  You're  gradually 
alienating  me,  Hermia — cutting  yourself  off  from  the  few 
blood  relations  y«u  have  on  earth." 

"From  Millicent  and  Theodore?  I  thought  that  Milly 
fairly  doted  on  me " 

Mrs.  Westfield  stammered  helplessly. 

"It's  I — I  who  object.  I  don't  like  your  friends.  I 
idon't  think  I  would  be  doing  my  duty  to  their  sainted 
father  if " 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Hermia  thoughtfully.  "You  think 
I  may  pervert — contaminate  them " 

"Not  you — your  friends " 

"I  was  hoping  that  you  would  all  come  to  'Wake- 
Robin'  for  June." 

"I — I've  made  other  plans,"  said  Mrs.  Westfield. 

Hermia's  jaw  set  and  her  face  hardened.  They  were 
thoroughly  antipathetic  now. 

"That,  of  course,  will  be  as  you  please,"  she  said 
coldly.  "Since  Thimble  Cottage  burned,  I've  tried  to 
make  you  understand  that  you  are  to  use  my  place  as 
your  own.  If  you  don't  want  to  come  I'm  sorry." 

"It's  not  that  I  don't  want  to  come,  Hermia.  I  shall 
probably  visit  you  as  usual.  Thimble  Cottage  will  be 
rebuilt  as  soon  as  the  plans  are  finished.  Meanwhile,  I've 
rented  the  island." 

"And  Milly  and  Theodore?" 

"They're  going  abroad  with  their  Aunt  Julia." 

"I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake  in  keeping  us 
apart,  Aunt  Harriet." 

"Why?  You  are  finding  new  diversions  and  new 
friends." 

"I  must  find  new  friends  if  my  relations  desert  me." 


THE  INEFFECTUAL   AUNT 

And  then  after  a,  pause:  "Who  has  rented  Thimble 
Island?" 

"An  artist — who  will  occupy  the  bark  cabin.  My 
agents  thought  it  as  well  to  have  some  one  there  until  the 
builders  begin — a  Mr.  Markham " 

"Markham !"  Hermia  gasped. 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"Oh — er — enough  to  be  sure  that  he  is  not  the  kind  of 
person  I  shall  care  to  cultivate." 

And  then  as  her  Aunt  wavered  uncertainly.  "Oh,  of 
course  I  shall  get  along.  I  can't  protest.  It's  your  priv- 
ilege to  choose  Milly's  friends,  even  if  you  mean  to  exclude 
me.  It's  also  my  privilege  to  choose  my  friends  and  I 
shall  do  so.  If  this  means  that  I  am  taboo  at  your  houses, 
I  shall  respect  your  wishes  but  I  hope  you'll  remember 
that  you  are  all  welcome  at  'Wake-Robin'  or  here  when- 
ever you  see  fit  to  visit  me." 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this  speech,  Hermia 
paused,  sure  of  her  effect,  and  calmly  awaited  the  usual 
recantation  and  reconciliation.  But  to  her  surprise  Mrs. 
Westfield  continued  to  move  slowly  toward  the  door, 
through  which,  after  a  formal  word  of  farewell,  she  pres- 
ently disappeared  and  was  gone. 

Hermia  stared  at  the  empty  door  and  pondered — 
really  on  the  verge  of  tears.  The  whole  proceeding  vio- 
lated all  precedents  established  for  ineffectual  aunts. 


MAROONED 

IN  the  course  of  an  early  pilgrimage  in  search  of  an 
unfrequented  spot  where  he  might  work  out  of  doors 
undisturbed  in  June  before  going  to  Normandy, 
Markham  had  stumbled  quite  by  accident  on  Thimble 
Island.  There,  to  his  delight,  he  had  discovered  the  exact 
combination  of  rocks,  foliage  and  barren  he  was  looking 
for — the  painter's  landscape.  The  island  was  separated 
from  the  mainland  by  an  arm  of  the  sea,  wide  enough  to 
keep  at  a  safe  distance  the  fashionable  cottagers  in  the 
adjacent  community. 

Fire  had  destroyed  the  large  frame  cottage  which  the 
Westfields  had  occupied,  but  there  was  a  small  bark 
bungalow  of  two  rooms  and  a  kitchen  that  had  been 
used,  he  learned,  as  quarters  for  extra  guests,  which  would 
exactly  suit  his  purposes.  Somewhat  doubtfully,  he  made 
inquiries  upon  the  mainland  and  communicated  with  the 
agents  of  Mrs.  Westfield  in  New  York,  with  whom,  to  his 
delight,  he  managed  to  make  the  proper  arrangements 
pending  the  rebuilding  of  the  house. 

He  had  established  himself  bag  and  baggage  and  at 
the  end  of  two  weeks  a  row  of  canvases  along  the  wall  of 
his  room  bore  testimony  to  his  diligence.  To  Markham 
they  had  been  weeks  of  undiluted  happiness.  He  was 
working  out  in  his  own  way  some  themes  of  color  which 
would  in  time  prove  to  others  that  he  knew  Nature  as 
well  as  he  knew  humanity;  that  the  brutal  truths  people 

30 


MAROONED 


saw  in  his  portraits  were  only  brutal  because  they  were 
true;  and  to  prove  to  himself  that  somewhere  in  him, 
deeply  hidden,  was  a  vein  of  tenderness  which  now  sought 
expression.  Every  day  he  was  learning  something.  This 
morning  for  instance  he  had  risen  before  daylight  to  try 
an  effect  in  grays  that  he  had  misssed  two  days  before. 
The  day  had  just  begun  and  Markham  stood  before  his 
tripod  facing  to  the  westward  painting  madly,  trying,  in 
the  few  short  moments  that  remained  to  him  before  sun- 
rise, to  put  upon  his  canvas  the  evanescent  tints  of  the 
dawn.  He  painted  madly  because  the  canvas  was  not  yet 
covered  and  because  he  knew  that  within  twenty  minutes 
at  the  most  the  sun  would  rise  behind  him  and  the  witching 
mystery  of  the  half-light  be  gone.  He  stood  upright 
painting  at  arm's  length  with  a  full  brush  and  broad  sweep 
of  wrist  and  arm.  Gobs  of  paint  from  the  tubes  melted 
into  pearly-grays  and  purples  in  the  middle  of  his  palette 
to  be  quickly  transposed  and  placed  tone  beside  tone  like 
a  pale  mosaic  enriched  and  blended  by  the  soft  fingers  of 
Time.  His  motive  was  simple — a  rock,  some  trees,  a 
stretch  of  sandy  waste,  backed  by  a  rugged  hill  and  a 
glimpse  of  sea,  all  bathed  in  mist;  and  his  brush  moved 
decisively,  heavily  at  times,  lightly,  caressingly  at  others 
as  the  sketch  grew  to  completion,  while  his  dark  eyes 
glowed  behind  their  hideous  goggles,  and  the  firm  lines 
at  his  mouth  relaxed  in  a  smile.  For  this  moment  at  least 
he  was  tasting  immortality — and  it  was  good. 

High  above  him  in  the  air  there  moved  a  speck,  grow- 
ing larger  with  every  moment,  but  he  did  not  see  it  or 
hear  the  faint  staccato  sounds  which  proclaimed  its  iden- 
tity. The  speck  moved  toward  the  sea  and  then,  making 
a  wide  turn  over  the  beach,  swept  inland  near  the  earth 
noiselessly,  and  deposited  itself  with  a  quivering  groan 

31 


MADCAP 


which  startled  him,  directly  in  the  unfinished  foreground 
of  the  painter,  throwing  its  occupant  in  a  huddled  heap 
upon  the  ground. 

It  had  been  a  lovely  foreground  of  sand  and  stubble, 
iridescent  with  the  dew,  rich  with  the  broken  gra}'s  and 
violets  of  the  reflected  heavens.  And  now 

He  dropped  his  palette  and  brushes  and  ran  forward, 
suddenly  alive  to  the  serious  nature  of  the  interruption. 
Upon  the  grass,  stretched  prone,  face  downward,  lay  a 
figure  in  leather  cap,  blouse  and  leggings.  But  as  his 
hand  touched  the  leather  shoulder,  the  aviator  moved  and 
then  sat  upright,  facing  him.  At  the  same  moment  the 
sun,  which  had  been  hesitating  for  some  moments  on  the 
brink  of  the  horizon,  came  up  with  a  rush  and  bathed  the 
face  of  the  small  person  before  him  in  liquid  gold.  The 
leather  cap  had  fallen  backward  and  a  mass  of  golden 
hair  which  now  tumbled  about  the  face  proclaimed  with 
startling  definiteness  the  sex  of  Markham's  unexpected 
guest. 

"Sorry  to  bother  you,"  said  the  guest  weakly.  "She 
missed  fire  and  I  had  to  'plane'  down." 

"Are  you  hurt  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  think  not,"  she  replied,  running  her  fingers 
over  her  leather  jerkin  to  reassure  herself  as  to  the  fact. 
"Just  shaken  up  a  little — that's  all." 

Markham  stood  up  and  watched  her,  his  arms  a-kimbo, 
a  tangle  at  his  brow.  It  was  quite  evident  to  Hermia 
Challoner  that  he  hadn't  the  slightest  recollection  of  her. 

"What  are  you  doing  out  at  this  time  of  day?"  he 
asked.  "Don't  you  know  you  might  have  drowned  your- 
self? Where  did  you  come  from?  Where  are  you  going?" 
The  tone  of  his  voice  was  not  unkind — it  was  even  solici- 

32 


bfl 
c 

5 
cs 
o" 

I 

12 

rt 

t/3 

B 

rt 


a 

-o 
o 
o 


MAROONED 


tous  for  her  welfare,  but  it  reminded  her  unpleasantly  of 
his  attitude  toward  her  the  last  time  they  had  met. 

"That,"  she  replied,  getting  rather  unsteadily  to  her 
feet,  "is  a  matter  of  no  importance." 

The  effort  in  rising  cost  her  trouble  and  as  she  moved 
toward  the  machine  her  face  went  white  and  she  would 
have  fallen  had  not  Markham  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  she  faltered.  But  he  led  her  up 
the  hill  to  the  cabin  where  he  put  her  on  a  couch  and  gave 
her  some  whisky  and  water. 

"Here,  drink  this,"  he  said  gently.  "It  will  do  you 
good." 

She  glanced  around  the  room  at  the  piles  of  canvases 
against  the  wall,  at  the  tin  coffee  pot  on  the  wooden  table, 
and  then  back  at  his  unshorn  face  and  shock  of  disorderly 
hair,  the  color  rising  slowly  to  her  cheeks.  But  she  obeyed 
him,  and  drank  what  remained  in  the  glass  without  ques- 
tion, sinking  back  upon  the  pillow,  her  lips  firmly  com- 
pressed, her  gaze  upon  the  ceiling. 

"I — I'm  sorry  to  put  you  to  so  much  trouble,"  she 
murmured. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  muttered.  "You  got  a  bad 
shock.  But  there  are  no  bones  broken.  You'll  be  all 
right  soon.  Go  to  sleep  if  you  can." 

She  tried  to  sit  up,  thought  better  of  it  and  lay  back 
again  with  eyes  closed,  while  Markham  moved  on  tiptoe 
around  the  room  putting  things  to  rights,  all  the  while 
swearing  silently.  What  in  the  name  of  all  that  was  un- 
pleasant did  this  philandering  little  idiot  mean  by  trying 
to  destroy  herself  on  the  front  lawn  of  his  holiday  house? 
Surely  the  world  was  big  enough,  the  air  broad  enough. 
He  glanced  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  crept  over  on  tip- 
toe and  peered  at  her  secretively.  He  straightened  and 

33 


^ MADCAP 

scratched  his  head,  fumbling  for  his  pipe,  puzzled.  She 
resembled  somebody  he  knew  or  whom  he  had  met.  Where  ? 
When? 

He  gave  it  up  at  last  and  strolled  out  of  doors — 
lighted  his  pipe  and  sauntered  down  the  hill  toward  the 
devilish  thing  of  canvas  and  wire  that  had  brought  her 
here.  He  knew  nothing  of  aeroplanes,  but  even  to  his 
unskilled  eye  it  was  apparent  that  without  repairs  the 
thing  would  fly  no  more,  for  the  canvas  covering  flapped 
suggestively  in  the  wind.  A  broken  wing!  And  the  bird 
was  in  his  cage.  His  situation — and  hers — began  to  as- 
sume unpleasant  definiteness.  For  three  days  at  least, 
until  his  supply  boat  arrived,  from  the  mainland,  they 
would  be  prisoners  here  together.  A  pretty  prospect! 

He  strolled  to  his  belated  canvas  and  stood  for  a  while 
puffing  at  his  pipe,  his  mind  still  pondering  gloomily  over 
his  neglected  foreground.  Then  regretfully,  tenderly,  he 
undid  the  clips  that  fastened  the  canvas,  unlooped  the 
cords  from  his  stone  anchors,  wiped  his  brushes,  shut  his 
paint-box  and  moved  slowly  up  the  hill  toward  the  house, 
his  mind  protestingly  adjusting  itself  to  the  situation. 
What  was  he  to  do  with  this  surprising  female  until  the 
boat  arrived.  Common  decency  demanded  hospitality, 
and  of  course  he  must  give  it  to  her,  his  bed,  his  food,  his 
time.  That  was  the  thing  he  begrudged  her  most — the 
long  wonderful  daylight  hours  in  this  chosen  spot,  the 
hourly  calls  of  sea  and  sky  in  this  painters'  paradise. 
Silly  little  fool!  If  she  had  had  to  tumble  why  couldn't 
she  have  done  it  on  the  West  shore  where  there  were 
women,  doctors  and  medicines  ? 

He  placed  the  canvas  and  easel  against  the  corner  of 
his  house,  knocked  out  his  pipe  on  the  heel  of  his  boot  and 

34 


MAROONED 


cautiously  peered  around  the  jamb  of  the  door  to  find  his 
unwelcome  guest  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  smoking  a 
cigarette.  He  straightened  sheepishly,  not  knowing 
whether  to  grin  or  to  scowl.  Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a 
moment. 

"Feeling  better?"  he  asked  at  last,  for  the  silence 
embarrassed  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  thanks." 

She  rose  and  flicked  her  cigarette  out  of  the  window. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked  again. 

"Home— to  breakfast." 

"Impossible!" 

"Why?" 

"You're  not  fit " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am " 

"Besides,  you  can't " 

"Why  not?" 

"Your  aeroplane — it  won't  fly?" 

She  stopped  in  the  doorway  and  glanced  anxiously 
down  the  slope  where  her  Bleriot  had  fallen. 

"One  wing  is  broken,  you  see." 

She  went  down  the  hill,  Markham  following.  She  stood 
before  the  broken  machine  and  looked  at  it  dejectedly. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  right.  It  will  have  to  be  repaired. 
I'll  go  back  by  boat." 

He  smiled. 

"Of  course.  But  in  the  meanwhile  I'm  afraid  you'll 
have  to  trust  to  my  hospitality — such  as  it  is." 

She  turned  toward  him  quickly. 

"You  mean " 

"The  boat — my  only  means  of  communication,  won't 
be  here  until  Thursday." 

35 


MADCAP 

Her  jaw  dropped  and  her  blue  eyes  were  quite  round 
in  dismay. 

"You  can't  mean  it !" 

"It's  the  truth." 

"Have  you  no  boats  ?  Does  no  one  come  here  from  the 
mainland?" 

"No.  I  arranged  that.  I  came  here  to  work  and 

didn't  want  to  be  interrupted "  And  hastily:  "Of 

course,  I'm  glad  to  be  of  service  to  you,  and  if  you'll  put 
up  with  what  I  can  offer " 

"Thanks,"  she  said.  "I  hope  it's  apparent  to  you 
that  I'm  not  stopping  of  my  own  volition."  And  then, 
as  though  aware  of  her  discourtesy,  she  turned  toward 
him,  a  smile  for  the  first  time  illumining  the  pallor  of  her 
face. 

"I'm  afraid  there's  nothing  left  for  me  then  but  to 
accept  your  kind  offer." 

When  they  reached  the  cabin  he  brought  out  a  wicker 
chair  and  put  it  in  the  shade. 

"If  you'll  sit  here  and  try  to  make  yourself  comfor- 
table, I'll  see  what  can  be  done  about  breakfast." 

She  thanked  him  with  a  smile,  sat  submissively  and 
he  disappeared  indoors,  where  she  heard  him  pottering 
about  in  the  small  kitchen.  It  was  very  quiet,  very  rest- 
ful there  under  the  trees  and  an  odor  of  cooking  coffee, 
eggs,  bacon  and  toast  which  the  breeze  wafted  in  her 
direction  from  the  open  window  reminded  her  that  the 
hour  of  breakfast  was  approaching.  But,  alluring  as  the 
odor  was,  she  had  no  appetite.  Her  knee  and  shoulder 
hurt  her  much  less  than  they  deserved  to,  much  less  than 
the  state  of  her  mind  at  finding  herself  suddenly  at  the 
mercy  of  this  young  man  who  had  aroused  both  her  choler 
and  her  curiosity.  Last  night  after  her  guests  had  gone 

36 


MAEOONED 


to  bed  she  had  sat  alone  for  a  long  while  on  the  porch 
which  overlooked  the  bay,  unconsciously  surveying  with 
her  eye  the  water  which  separated  Thimble  Island  from 
the  mainland.  But  it  was  a  mad  impulse  that  had  sent 
her  over  the  sea  this  morning,  a  madder  impulse  that  had 
sent  her  to  Thimble  Island  of  all  places,  upon  which  she 
had  descended  with  an  audacity  and  a  recklessness  which 
surprised  even  herself.  She  realized  that  a  while  ago  she 
had  lied  glibly  to  Markham  about  her  mishap.  Her 
Bleriot  had  not  missed  fire.  From  the  perch  of  her  lofty 
reconnaissance  she  had  espied  the  painter  working  at  his 
canvas,  but  her  notion  of  visiting  him  she  knew  had  been 
born  not  this  morning,  but  last  night  when  she  had  sat 
alone  on  the  terrace  and  watched  the  pale  moon  wreathing 
fitfully  among  the  clouds  which  hovered  uncertainly  off- 
shore. She  had  come  to  Thimble  Island  simply  because 
impulse  had  led  her  here,  and  because  she  was  accustomed, 
with  possible  reservations,  to  follow  her  impulses  wherever 
they  might  lead  her.  That  they  had  led  her  to  Markham 
signified  nothing  except  that  she  found  herself  more  curi- 
ous about  him  than  she  had  supposed  herself  to  be. 

Her  plans  for  the  morning  had  provided  for  a  brief 
landing  while  she  tinkered  with  the  machine,  scorning  his 
proffers  of  help ;  for  a  snub,  if  he  chose  to  take  advantage 
of  their  slight  acquaintance;  and  for  a  triumphant  de- 
parture when  her  pride  and  her  curiosity  had  been  ap- 
peased. Her  plans  had  not  included  the  miscalculation  of 
distance  and  the  projecting  branch  of  the  tree  which  had 
been  her  undoing.  She  found  it  difficult  to  scorn  the 
proffers  of  help  of  a  man  who  helped  without  proffering. 
It  was  impossible  to  snub  a  man  for  taking  advantage  of 
a  slight  acquaintance  when  he  refused  to  remember  that 
such  an  acquaintance  had  ever  existed.  The  triumphant 

37 


MADCAP 

departure  now  refused  to  be  triumphant  or  indeed  even 
a  departure.  At  the  present  moment  her  pride  and  her 
curiosity  still  clamored  and  Markham  in  his  worried, 
absent-minded  way  was  repaying  her  with  kindness — a 
kindness  every  moment  of  which  increased  Hermia's  ob- 
ligation and  diminished  her  importance. 

She  sang  very  small  now  in  Markham's  scheme  of 
things  and  sat  very  quietly  in  her  chair,  like  a  rebellious 
child  which  has  been  punished  by  being  put  alone  in  a 
corner.  She  listened  to  his  footsteps  within,  the  clattering 
of  dishes,  the  tinkle  of  table  service  and  in  a  little  while 
he  appeared  in  the  door  of  the  cabin,  redolent  with  the 
odor  of  coffee  and  bacon,  and  announced  breakfast. 


CHAPTER  V 

BREAD    AND    SALT 


T 


HANKS,"  said  Hermia.     "I'm  not  hungry." 
"But  you  can't  get  on  without  food." 
"I'm  not  hungry,"  she  repeated. 
"Do  you  feel  ill?    Perhaps " 


"No.  I'm  all  right  again — quite  all  right.  I  don't 
know  what  made  me  feel  faint.  I've  never  done  such  a 
thing  in  all  my  life  before.  But  you  needn't  worry.  I'm 
not  going  to  faint  again." 

Markham  recalled  the  cigarette  and  believed  her. 

"But  you  can't  get  along  all  morning  without  food," 
he  said. 

She  looked  away  from  him  toward  the  shore  of  the 
mainland  where  the  towers  of  "Wake-Robin"  made  a 
gray  smudge  against  the  trees. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can,"  she  said  shortly. 

Markham  eyed  her  curiously  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  on  his  heel  and  went  abruptly  into  the  cabin 
whence  he  presently  emerged  carrying  a  tray  which  bore 
a  cup  of  steaming  coffee,  some  toast  and  an  egg.  Before 
she  was  well  aware  of  it,  he  had  placed  the  tray  on  her 
lap,  and  stood  before  her,  his  six  feet  of  stature  domi- 
nating. 

"Now  eat !"  he  said,  quietly. 

She  looked  down  at  the  food  and  then  uncertainly  up 
to  his  face.  Never  in  her  life,  that  she  could  remember, 
had  she  been  addressed  so  peremptorily.  His  lips  smiled, 

39 


MADCAP 

but  there  was  no  denying  the  note  of  command  in  his 
voice  and  in  his  attitude.  Curiously  enough  she  found 
herself  fingering  at  the  coffee  cup. 

"There's  a  lump  of  sugar  in  it,"  he  added,  "and  an- 
other on  the  saucer.  I  have  no  cream." 

"I — I  don't  care  for  cream,  thanks." 

There  seemed  nothing  to  do,  since  he  still  stood  there 
looking  at  her,  but  to  eat,  and  she  did  so  without  further 
remarks.  He  watched  her  for  a  moment  and  then  went  in 
at  the  door,  returning  in  a  moment  with  another  cup  of 
coffee  and  another  dish.  Without  a  word  he  sat  on  the 
step  of  the  porch  and  followed  her  example,  munching 
his  toast  and  sipping  his  coffee  with  grave  deliberateness, 
his  eyes  following  hers  to  the  distant  shore. 

Hermia's  appetite  had  come  with  eating  and  she  had 
discovered  that  his  coffee  was  delicious.  She  made  a 
belated  resolution  that,  if  she  must  stay  here,  she  would 
do  it  with  a  good  grace.  He  had  offered  to  fill  her  coffee 
cup  and  to  bring  more  toast,  but,  beyond  inquiring 
politely  how  she  felt,  had  asked  her  no  other  questions. 
When  he  had  breakfasted  he  took  her  dishes  and  his  own 
indoors  and  put  them  in  the  kitchen  sink,  then  came  to  the 
door  stuffing  some  tobacco  into  the  bowl  of  his  disrepu- 
table pipe. 

"I  hope  I'm  safe  in  assuming  that  tobacco  smoke  is  un- 
objectionable to  you." 

"Oh,  quite." 

A  glance  at  his  eyes  revealed  the  suspicion  of  a  smile. 
There  wag  humor  in  the  man,  after  all.  She  looked  up  at 
him  more  graciously. 

"I  suppose  you're  wondering  where  I  dropped  from,'" 
she  said  at  last. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  confess — I'm  curious" — puff, 
40 


BREAD   AND   SALT 


puff — "though  not  so  much  about  the  where" — puff — 
"as  about  the  why.  Other  forms  of  suicide  may  be  less 
picturesque  than  flying,  but  they  doubtless  have  other — 
homelier — virtues  to  recommend  them.  If  I  wished  to  die 
suddenly  I  think  I  should  simply  blow  out  the  gas. 
Do  you  come  from  Quemscott,  Simsbury  or  perhaps 
further?" 

He  asked  the  questions  as  though  more  from  a  desire 
to  be  polite  than  from  any  actual  interest. 

"No — from  Westport.    You  know  I  live  there." 

"No — I  didn't  know  it.  Curiously  enough  in  the  back 
of  my  head  I've  got  a  notion  that  somewhere — but  not  in 
Westport — you  and  I  have  met  before." 

"I  can't  imagine  where,"  said  Hermia  promptly. 

He  rubbed  his  head  and  thatched  his  brows. 

"Paris,  perhaps, — or — it  couldn't  have  been  in  Nor- 
mandy?" he  asked. 

"I've  never  been  in  Normandy.  Besides,  if  we  had  met, 
I  probably  would  have  remembered  it.  I'm  afraid  you're 
thinking  of  some  one  else." 

"Yes,  perhaps  I  am,"  he  said  slowly.  "I've  got  the 
worst  memory  in  the  world " 

"Mine  is  excellent,"  put  in  Hermia. 

He  looked  at  her  soberly,  and  her  gaze  fell,  but  in  a 
moment  she  flashed  a  bright  smile  up  at  him.  "Of  course 
it  doesn't  matter,  does  it?  What  does  matter  is  how  I'm 
going  to  get  ashore." 

"I've  been  thinking  about  that.  I  don't  see  how  it 
can  be  managed,"  he  replied  briefly. 

"Isn't  there  a  boat-house?" 

"Yes,  but — unfortunately — no  boats." 

"It's  a  very  awkward  predicament,"  she  murmured. 

"Not  nearly  so  awkward  as  it  might  have  been  if  there 

41 


MADCAP 

had  been  no  one  here,"  he  said  slowly.     "At  least  you 
won't  starve." 

"You're  very  kind.  Oh,  I  hope  you  won't  think  me 
ungrateful.  I'm  not,  really.  I'll  not  bother  you." 

He  looked  at  her  amusedly. 

"Can  you  cook?" 

"No,"  she  admitted,  "but  I'd  like  to  try." 

"I  guess  you'd  better  leave  that  to  me,"  he  finished 
grimly. 

He  was  treating  her  as  though  she  were  a  child,  but 
she  didn't  resent  it  now.  Indeed  his  attitude  toward  her 
made  resentment  impossible.  His  civility  and  hospitality, 
while  lacking  in  the  deference  of  other  men  of  her  ac- 
quaintance, were  beyond  cavil.  But  it  was  quite  clear  that 
the  only  impression  her  looks  or  her  personality  had  made 
upon  him  was  the  slight  one  of  having  met  and  forgotten 
her — hardly  flattering  to  her  self-esteem.  He  was  quite 
free  from  self-consciousness  and  at  moments  wore  an  air 
of  abstraction  which  made  it  seem  to  Hermia  as  though 
he  had  forgotten  her  presence.  In  another  atmosphere 
she  had  thought  him  unmannerly ;  here,  somehow  it  didn't 
seem  necessary  to  lay  such  stress  upon  the  outward  tokens 
of  gentility.  And  his  personal  civility,  more  implied  than 
expressed,  was  even  more  reassuring  than  the  lip  and  eye 
homage  to  which  she  was  accustomed. 

In  these  moments  of  abstraction  she  inspected  him 
curiously.  His  unshorn  face  was  tanned  a  deep  brown 
which  with  his  rough  clothing  and  longish  hair  gave  him 
rather  a  forbidding  aspect,  and  the  lines  into  which  his 
face  fell  in  moments  of  repose  were  almost  unpleasantly 
severe ;  but  his  eyes  which  had  formed  the  painter's  habit 
of  looking  critically  through  their  lashes  had  a  way  of 
opening  wide  at  unexpected  moments  and  staring  at  her 

42 


BREAD   AND   SALT 


with  the  disconcerting  frankness  of  those  of  a  child.  He 
turned  them  on  her  now  so  abruptly  that  she  had  not 
time  to  avert  her  gaze. 

"You'll  be  missed,  won't  you?"  he  asked. 

She  smiled. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  shall.  They'll  see  the  open  han- 
gar " 

"Do  you  think  any  one  could  have  been  watching  your 
flight?" 

"Hardly.  I  left  at  dawn.  You  see  I've  been  bothered 
a  lot  by  the  curiosity  of  my  neighbors.  That's  why  I've 
been  flying  early." 

"H — m.    It's  a  pity  to  worry  them  so." 

Markham  rose  and  knocked  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe. 

"You  see,  Thimble  Island  is  a  good  distance  from  the 
channel  and  only  the  smaller  pleasure  boats  come  this 
way.  Of  course  there's  a  chance  of  one  coming  within 
hail.  I'll  keep  a  watch  and  do  what  I  can,  of  course.  In 
the  meanwhile  I  hope  you'll  consider  the  cabin  your  own. 
I'll  be  quite  comfortable  to-night  with  a  blanket  in  the 
boat-house." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  but  when  she  turned  her 
head,  he  had  already  vanished  into  the  cabin,  where  in  a 
moment  she  heard  the  clatter  of  the  dishes  he  was  washing. 
At  this  moment  Hermia  was  sure  that  she  didn't  dislike 
him  at  all.  The  clatter  continued,  mingled  with  the  sound 
of  splashing  water  and  a  shrill  piping  as  he  whistled  an 
air  from  "Boheme."  Hermia  gazed  out  over  the  water 
a  moment  and  then  her  lips  broke  into  a  lovely  smile.  She 
made  a  quick  resolution,  got  up  and  followed  him  indoors. 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  her  as  she  entered. 

"Do  you  want  anything?"  he  asked  cheerfully. 

"No — nothing — except  to  wash  those  dishes." 

43 


MADCAP 

"Nonsense.    I  won't  be  a  minute.    It's  nothing  at  all." 

"Perhaps  that's  why  I  insist  on  doing  it." 

She  had  taken  off  her  blouse,  rolled  up  the  sleeves  of 
her  waist  with  a  business-like  air  and  elbowed  him  away 
from  the  dishpan  unceremoniously. 

"I'm  going  to  wash  them — wash  them  properly.  You 
may  wipe  them  if  you  like." 

He  grinned  and  fished  around  on  a  shelf  for  a  dish- 
cloth. Having  found  it  he  stationed  himself  beside  her 
and  took  the  dishes  one  by  one  as  she  finished  with  them. 

"Your  name  is  Markham,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes — how  did  you  know  ?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

She  indicated  a  packing  case  in  the  corner  which  was 
addressed  in  letters  six  inches  high. 

"Oh,"  he  said.    "Of  course." 

"You're  the  Mr.  Markham,  aren't  you?" 

"I'm  not  sure  about  that.    I'm  this  Mr.  Markham." 

"Markham,  the  portrait  painter?" 

"That's  what  I  profess.    Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

He  examined  her,  puzzling  again,  wiping  the  cup  in 
his  fingers  with  great  particularity. 

"Are  you  an  anarchist?"  she  asked  in  a  moment. 

He  laughed. 

"Not  that  I'm  aware  of." 

"Or  a  gorilla?" 

"One  of  my  grandfathers  was — once  a  long  while  ago." 

"Or  a  misogynist?" 

"A  what?" 

"A  grouch.    Are  you?" 

"I  don't  know.     Perhaps  I  am." 

"I  don't  believe  it  now.  I  did  at  first.  You  can  look 
very  cross  when  you  like." 

44 


BREAD   AND   SALT 


"I  haven't  been  cross  with  you,  have  I?" 

"No.    But  you  didn't  like  being  interrupted." 

"Not  then — but  I'm  rather  enjoying  it  now."  He 
took  a  dish  from  her  fingers.  "You  know  you  did  drop 
in  rather  informally.  Who's  been  talking  of  me?" 

"Oh,  that's  the  penalty  of  distinction.  One  hears  such 
things.  Are  you  queer,  morbid  and  eccentric?" 

"I  believe  I  am,"  amusedly,  "now  that  you  mention  it." 

She  was  silent  a  moment  before  she  spoke  again. 

"I  don't  believe  it — at  all.  But  you  are  unconven- 
tional, aren't  you?" 

"According  to  the  standards  of  your  world,  yes,  de- 
cidedly." 

"My  world !    What  do  you  know  about  my  world  ?" 

"Only  what  you've  told  me  by  your  opinions  of  mine." 

"I  haven't  expressed  my  opinions." 

"There's  no  need  of  your  expressing  them." 

"If  you're  going  to  be  cross  I'll  not  wash  another 
dish."  But  she  handed  the  last  of  them  to  him  and  emp- 
tied the  dishpan. 

"Now,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  wish  you'd  please  go  out- 
side and  smoke." 

"Outside!    Why?" 

"I'm  going  to  put  this  place  in  order.  Ugh!  I've 
never  in  my  life  seen  such  a  mess.  Won't  you  go  ?" 

He  looked  around  deprecatingly.  "I'm  sorry  you 
came  in  here.  It  is  rather  a  mess  on  the  floor — and 
around,"  and  then  as  though  by  an  inspiration,  "but  then 
you  know,  I  do  keep  the  pots  and  dishes  clean." 

By  this  time  she  had  reached  the  shelves  over  which 
she  ran  an  inquisitive  finger. 

"Dust!"  she  sniffed.  "Barrels  of  it!  and  the  plates 

45 


MADCAP   

?"  She  took  one  down  and  inspected  it  minutely. 

"I  thought  so.  Please  go  out,"  she  pleaded. 

"And  if  I  don't?" 

"I'll  do  it  anyway." 

By  this  time  she  was  peering  into  the  corners,  from 
one  of  which  she  triumphantly  brought  forth  a  mop  and 
pail. 

"Oh,  I  say,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  do  that." 

"I  don't  see  that  you've  got  any  choice  in  the  matter. 
I'm  going  to  clean  up,  and  if  you  don't  want  to  be 
splashed,  I'd  advise  you  to  clear  out." 

She  went  to  the  spigot  and  let  the  water  run  into  the 
bucket,  while  she  extended  her  palm  in  his  direction. 

"Now  some  soap  please — sand-soap,  if  you  have  it. 
Any  soap,  if  you  haven't." 

"I've  only  got  this,"  he  said  lifting  the  soap  from  the 
dishpan. 

"Oh,  very  well.  Now  please  go  and  paint."  But 
Markham  didn't.  He  found  it  more  amusing  to  watch  her 
small  hands  rubbing  the  soap  into  the  fiber  of  the  mop. 

"If  you'll  show  me  I'll  be  very  glad "  he  volun- 
teered. But  as  he  came  forward,  she  brought  the  wet 
mop  out  of  the  bucket  with  a  threatening  sweep  which 
splashed  him,  and  set  energetically  to  work  about  his 
very  toes. 

He  moved  to  the  door  j  amb,  but  she  pursued  him. 

"Outside,  please,"  with  relentless  scorn.  "This  is  no 
place  for  a  philosopher." 

Markham  was  inclined  to  agree  with  her  and  re- 
treated in  utter  rout. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE    RESCUE 

ON  the  porch  he  sank  into  the  wicker  chair,  filled  his 
pipe  and  looked  afar,  his  ear  attuned  to  the 
sounds  of  his  domestic  upheaval,  not  quite  sure 
whether  he  was  provoked  or  amused.  At  moments,  by  her 
pluck  she  had  excited  his  admiration,  at  others  she  had 
seemed  a  little  less  worthy  of  consideration  than  a  spoiled 
child,  but  her  present  role  amused  him  beyond  expres- 
sion., Whoever  she  was,  whatever  her  mission  in  life,  she 
was  quite  the  most  remarkable  young  female  person  in  his 
experience.  Who?  It  didn't  matter  in  the  least  of  course, 
but  he  found  himself  somewhat  chagrined  that  his  memory 
had  played  him  such  a  trick.  Young  girls,  especially  the 
impudent,  self-satisfied  kind  that  one  met  in  America,  had 
always  filled  Markham  with  a  vague  alarm.  He  didn't 
understand  them  in  the  least,  nor  did  they  understand 
him,  and  he  had  managed  with  some  discretion  to  confine 
his  attentions  to  women  of  a  riper  growth.  Madame 
Tcherny,  for  instance ! 

Markham  sat  suddenly  upright  in  his  chair,  a  look  of 
recognition  in  his  eyes. 

Olga  Tcherny !  Of  course,  he  remembered  now.  And 
this  was  the  cheeky  little  thing  Olga  had  brought  to  the 
studio  to  see  her  portrait,  who  had  strutted  around  and 
talked  about  money — Miss — er — funny  he  couldn't  think 
of  her  name !  He  got  up  after  a  while,  walked  around  and 
peered  in  at  the  kitchen  door. 

47 


MADCAP 

His  visitor  had  washed  the  shelves  with  soap  and 
water,  and  now  he  found  her  down  on  her  knees  with  the 
bucket  and  scrubbing-brush  working  like  a  fury. 

"See  here,  I  can't  let  you  do  that "  he  began 

again. 

She  turned  a  flushed  face  up  at  him  and  then  went  on 
scrubbing. 

"You've  got  to  stop  it,  do  you  hear?  I  won't  have  it. 
You're  not  up  to  that  sort  of  work.  You  haven't  got  any 
right  to  do  a  thing  like  this.  Get  up  at  once  and  go  out 
of  doors !" 

She  made  no  reply  and  backed  away  toward  the  door 
of  the  living-room,  finishing  the  last  strip  of  unsecured 
floor  before  she  even  replied.  Then  she  got  up  and  looked 
at  her  work  admiringly. 

"There !"  she  said  as  though  to  herself.  "That's  bet- 
ter." 

The  area  of  damp  floor  lay  betwee'n  them  and  when 
he  made  a  step  to  relieve  her  of  the  bucket  she  had  lifted, 
she  waved  him  back. 

"Don't  you  dare  walk  on  it — after  all  my  trouble.  Go 
around  the  other  way." 

He  obeyed  with  a  meekness  that  surprised  him,  but 
when  he  reached  the  other  door  she  had  already  emptied 
her  bucket  and  her  roving  eye  was  seeking  new  fields  to 
conquer. 

"You've  got  to  stop  it  at  once,"  he  insisted. 

"It's  the  least  I  can  do  to  earn  my  board.  This  room 
must  be  dusted,  the  bed  made  and — 

"No.    I  won't  have  it." 

He  took  her  by  the  elbows  and  pushed  her  out  of  the 
door  to  the  chair  on  the  porch  into  which  she  sank,  red 
of  face  and  out  of  breath. 

48 


THE   RESCUE 


"I'll  only  rest  for  a  minute,"  she  protested. 

"We'll  see  about  that  later,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"For  the  present,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  you're  really 
going  to  obey  orders !" 

She  squared  her  chin  at  him  defiantly. 

"Really!    Are  you  sure?" 

"Positive !" 

"It's  more  than  I  am." 

"I'm  bigger  than  you  are." 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  you." 

He  laughed. 

"You  hardly  know  me  well  enough  to  be  afraid  of  me." 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  know  you  any  better." 

"You're  candid  at  any  rate.  But  when  I  like  I  can 
be  most  unpleasant.  Ask  Olga  Tcherny." 

Her  gaze  flickered  then  flared  into  steadiness  as  she 
said  coolty. 

"I  haven't  the  remotest  idea  what  you're  talking 
about." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  remember?"  he 
asked  smiling. 

"My  memory  is  excellent.  Perhaps  I  lack  imagina- 
tion. What  should  I  remember?" 

"My  studio — in  New  York.  You  visited  me  with  the 
Countess  Tcherny." 

"I  do  not  know — I  have  never  met  the  Countess 
Tcherny." 

The  moment  was  propitious.  There  was  a  sound  of 
voices,  and  Markham  and  his  visitor  glanced  over  their 
shoulders  past  the  angle  of  the  cottage  to  where  in  the 
bright  sunlight  into  which  she  had  emerged,  stood  the 
Countess  Olga. 

"Hermia,  thank  the  Lord!"  she  was  saying.     "How 

49 


MADCAP 

you've  frightened  us,  child!"  She  came  quickly  forward, 
but  when  Markham  rose  she  stopped,  her  dark  eyes  round 
with  astonishment. 

"You !  John  Markham !  Well,  upon  my  word !  C'est 
dbracadabrant!  Here  I've  been  harrowing  my  soul  all 
morning  with  thoughts  of  your  untimely  death,  Hermia, 
dear,  turning  Westport  topsy-turvy,  to  find  you  at  your 
ease  snugly  wrapped  in  tete-h-tete  with  this  charming 
social  renegade.  It  is  almost  too  much  for  one's  pa- 
tience !" 

Hermia  rose  laughing,  and  faced  the  rescue  party 
which  came  forward  chattering  congratulations. 

"I  thought  my  friends  were  too  wise  ever  to  be  worried 
about  me"  she  said  coolly.  "But  I'm  awfully  obliged  and 
flattered.  Hilda,  have  you  met  Mr.  Markham?  Miss 
Ashurst,  Miss  Van  Vorst,  and  Mr.  Armistead,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham's  island  fortunately  happened  to  be  just  underneath 
where  my  machine  decided  to  miss  fire " 

"You  did  fall  then?" 

"Well  rather — look  at  my  poor  bird,  there." 

Salignac,  the  mechanician,  was  already  on  the  spot 
confirming  the  damage. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  happen  to  know  that  you 
could  find  me  here?"  asked  Hermia. 

"We  didn't  know  it,"  replied  the  countess.  "We  took 
a  chance  and  came,  worried  to  death.  The  head  coach- 
man's wife  who  was  up  with  a  sick  child  heard  you  get  off 
and  watched  your  flight  over  the  bay  in  this  direction. 
She  didn't  see  you  fall.  But  when  you  didn't  return  she 
became  frightened  and  alarmed  the  household — woke  us 
all  at  half-past  five.  Think  of  it!"  She  yawned  and 
dropped  wearily  on  the  step  of  the  porch.  And  then,  as 
Markham  went  indoors  in  search  of  chairs,  in  a  lower  tone 

50 


THE   RESCUE 


to  Hermia,  "With  a  person  you  have  professed  to  detest 
you  seem  to  be  getting  on  famously,  my  dear." 

"One  hardly  quarrels  with  the  individual  who  pro- 
vides one  with  breakfast,"  she  said  coolly. 

At  the  call  of  Salignac,  the  mechanician,  Hermia  fol- 
1  lowed  the  others  down  the  slope  to  the  machine,  leaving 
the  Countess  and  Markham  alone. 

"Well,"  Olga  questioned,  "what  on  earth  are  you 
doing  here?" 

He  couldn't  fail  to  note  the  air  of  proprietorship. 

"What  should  I  be  doing?"  and  he  made  a  gesture 
toward  his  idle  easel. 

"Why  didn't  you  answer  my  letters?" 

"I  have  never  received  them.  No  mail  has  been  for- 
warded here." 

"Oh!"  And  then:  "I  didn't  know  just  what  to  think 
i — unless  that  you  had  gone  back  to  Normandy." 

"I'm  going  next  month.  Meanwhile  I  rented  Thimble 
Island— 

"I  wrote  you  that  I  was  coming  here  to  'Wake-Robin,' 
Miss  Challoner's  place,"  she  said  pettishly,  "and  that  I 
was  sure  there  would  be  one  or  two  commissions  for  you 
in  the  neighborhood  if  you  cared  to  come." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you.  I'm  sorry.  It's  a  little  too 
late  now.  I'm  due  at  Havre  in  August." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  mock  helplessness. 

"There.  I  thought  so.  My  plans  for  you  never  seem 
to  work  out.  It's  really  quite  degrading  the  way  I'm  pur- 
suing you.  It  almost  seems  as  if  you  didn't  want  me." 

He  leaned  over  the  back  of  her  chair,  his  lips  close  to 
her  ear. 

"You  know  better  than  that.  But  I'm  such  hopeless 
material  to  work  with.  These  people,  the  kind  of  people 

51 


MADCAP     

one  has  to  paint — they  want  lies.  It  gives  me  a  diabolical 
pleasure  to  tell  them  the  truth.  I'll  never  succeed.  O 
Madame !  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  give  me  up." 

"And  Hermia?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed. 

"An  enfant  terrible!  Has  she  no  parent — or  guard- 
ians? Do  you  encourage  this  sort  of  thing?" 

"I — Dieu!  No !  She  will  kill  herself  next.  I  have  no 
influence.  She  does  exactly  as  she  pleases.  Advice  merely 
decides  her  to  do  the  opposite  thing." 

"It's  too  bad.     She's  quite  human." 

"Oh." 

The  Countess  Olga  examined  him  through  her  long 
lashes. 

"Are  you  alone  here?" 

"Yes.    I'm  camping." 

"Ugh,"  she  shuddered.  "You  had  better  come  to 
'Wake-Robin'." 

"No." 

She  stamped  her  small  foot. 

"Oh,  I've  no  patience  with  you." 

"Besides,  I  haven't  been  asked,"  he  added. 

The  others  were  now  approaching  and  Markham 
straightened  as  Hermia  came  toward  him. 

"Olga,  dear,  we  must  be  going.  It's  too  bad  to  have 
spoiled  your  morning,  Mr.  Markham." 

The  obvious  reply  was  so  easy  and  so  polite,  but  he 
scorned  it. 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  the 
gainer  by  a  clean  kitchen." 

No  flattery  there.    Hermia  colored  gently. 

"I — I  scrubbed  his  floor,"  she  explained  to  Olga.  "It 
was  filthy." 

52 


THE   RESCUE 


The  Countess  Olga's  eyes  opened  a  trifle  wider. 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  she  said,  turning  aside. 

Miss  Van  Vorst  in  her  role  of  ingenue  by  this  time  was 
prying  about  outside  the  bungalow,  on  the  porch  of  which 
she  espied  Markham's  unfinished  sketch. 

"A  painting !  May  I  look  ?  It's  all  wet  and  sticky." 
She  had  turned  it  face  outward  and  stood  before  it  utter- 
ing childish  panegyric.  "Oh,  it's  too  perfectly  sweet  for 
anything.  I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen  anything  quite  so 
wonderful.  Won't  you  explain  it  all  to  me,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham?" 

Markham  good-humoredly  took  up  the  canvas. 

"Very  glad,"  he  said,  "only  you've  got  it  upside 
down." 

In  the  pause  which  followed  the  laughter  Salignac 
came  up  the  slope  and  reported  to  Hermia  that  he  had 
found  nothing  wrong  with  the  engine  and  that  the  dam- 
aged wing  could  be  repaired  with  a  piece  of  wire. 

Hermia's  eyes  sparkled.  The  time  for  her  triumphant 
departure,  it  seemed,  had  only  been  delayed.  "Good 
news,"  she  said  quietly.  "In  that  case  I  intend  flying  back 
to  'Wake-Robin'." 

A  chorus  of  protests  greeted  her  decision. 

"You  shan't,  Hermia,"  shouted  Reggie  Armistead, 
"until  cither  Salignac  or  I  have  tried  it  out." 

"You  will  oblige  me,  Reggie,"  replied  Hermia  calmly, 
"by  minding  your  own  business." 

"O  Hermia,  after  falling  this  morning !  How  can  you 
dare?"  cried  Miss  Van  Vorst,  with  a  genteel  shudder. 

"Si  Mademoiselle  me  permettrait "  began  Salig- 
nac. 

But  she  waved  her  hand  in  negation  and  indicated  the 

53 


MADCAP 

wide  lawn  in  front  of  the  ruined  buildings  which  sloped 
gently  to  the  water's  edge. 

"Wheel  it  there,  Salignac,"  in  French,  "and,  Reggie, 
please  go  at  once  and  help." 

Armistead's  boyish  face  turned  toward  her  in  admira- 
tion and  in  protest,  but  he  followed  Salignac  without  a 
word. 

"It's  folly,  Hermia,"  added  Hilda.  "Something  must 
be  wrong  with  the  thing.  You  remember  just  the  other 
day " 

"I'm  going,  Hilda,"  imperturbably.  "You  can  follow 
me  in  the  launch." 

Of  Hermia's  companions,  Olga  Tcherny  alone  said 
nothing.  She  had  no  humor  to  waste  her  breath.  And 
Markham  stood  beside  the  group,  his  arms  folded,  his 
head  bowed,  listening.  But  when  Hermia  went  into  the 
cottage  for  her  things  he  followed  her. 

"You're  resolved?"  he  asked,  helping  her  into  her 
blouse. 

"Well,  rather." 

"I  wish  I  might  persuade  you — your  nerves  were — a 
little  shaken  this  morning." 

She  paused  in  the  act  of  putting  on  her  gauntlets  and 
held  one  small  bare  hand  under  his  nose  that  he  might  see 
how  steady  it  was.  He  grasped  it  in  both  of  his  own  and 
then,  with  an  impulse  that  he  couldn't  explain,  kissed  it 
again  and  again. 

"Don't  go,  child,"  he  whispered  gently.  "Not  to- 
day." 

She  struggled  to  withdraw  her  hand,  a  warm  flush 
stealing  up  her  neck  and  temples. 

"Let  me  go,  Mr.  Markham.    Let  me  go." 

He  relinquished  her  and  stood  aside. 

54 


THE   RESCUE 


"As  you  please,"  he  muttered.    "I'm  sorry " 

She  turned,  halfway  to  the  door  and  examined  his 
face. 

"Sorry?    For  what?" 

"That  I  haven't  the  authority  to  forbid  you." 

"You?"  she  laughed.    "That  is  amusing." 

"I  would  teach  you  some  truths  that  you  have  never 
learned,"  he  persisted,  "the  fatuity  of  mere  bravado,  the 
uses  of  life.  You  couldn't  play  with  it  if  you  knew  some- 
thing of  its  value " 

"The  only  value  of  life  is  in  what  you  can  get  from 
it " 

"Or  in  what  you  can  give  from  it " 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Markham.  I  will  join  your  school  of 

philosophy  another  day.  Meanwhile "  and  she 

pointed  her  gauntleted  hand  toward  the  open  doorway, 
"life  shall  pay  me  one  more  sensation." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  followed. 

The  machine  was  already  on  the  lawn  surrounded  by 
Hermia's  guests  and  preliminary  experiments  had  proven 
that  all  was  ready.  Hermia  climbed  into  the  seat  unaided, 
while  Markham  stood  at  one  side  and  watched  the  pro- 
pellers started.  Faster  and  faster  they  flew,  the  machine 
held  by  Armistead  and  the  Frenchman,  while  Hermia  sat 
looking  straight  before  her  down  the  lawn  through  the 
opening  between  the  rocks  which  led  to  open  water. 

"Au  revolr,  my  friends,"  she  cried  and  gave  the  word, 
at  which  the  men  sprang  clear,  and  amid  cries  of  encour- 
agement and  congratulation  the  machine  moved  down  the 
lawn,  gathering  momentum  with  every  second,  rising 
gracefully  with  its  small  burden  just  before  it  reached  the 
water  and  soaring  into  the  air.  The  people  on  the  lawn 

55 


MADCAP 

watched  for  a  moment  and  then  with  one  accord  rushed 
for  the  launch. 

Olga  Tcherny  paused  a  moment,  her  hand  on  Mark- 
ham's  arm. 

"You  will  come  to  'Wake-Robin'  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  not,"  he  replied. 

"Then  I  shall  come  to  Thimble  Island,"  she  finished. 

"I  shall  be  charmed,  of  course." 

She  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  him  and  laughed.  He 
was  watching  the  distant  spot  in  the  air. 

"You're  too  polite  to  be  quite  natural." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be." 

"Then  don't  let  it  happen  again." 

The  voices  of  her  companions  were  calling  to  her  and 
she  hastened  her  footsteps. 

"A  bientot,"  she  cried. 

"Au  revoir,  Madame." 

He  saw  her  hurried  into  the  launch,  which  immediately 
got  under  way,  its  exnauct  snorting  furiously,  and  van- 
ished around  the  point  of  rocks.  In  a  moment  there  was 
nothing  left  of  his  visitors  to  Markham  but  the  lapping  oi 
the  waves  from  the  launch  upon  the  beach  and  the  spot  in 
the  air  which  was  now  almost  imperceptible. 

He  stood  there  until  he  could  see  it  no  more,  when  he 
turned  and  took  his  pipe  thoughtfully  from  his  trousers 
pocket  and  addressed  it  with  conviction. 

"Mad !"  he  muttered.    "All— quite  mad !" 


CHAPTER  VII 

"WAKE    ROBIN" 

MARKHAM   climbed  the  hill  slowly,  pushing  to- 
bacco into  his  pipe.     Once  or  twice  he  stopped 
and  turned,  looking  out  over  the  bay  toward 
the  distant  launch.     The  aeroplane  had  vanished.     When 
he  reached  the  bungalow  he  dropped  into  a  chair,  his  gaze 
on  space,  and  smoked  silently  for  many  minutes. 

Mad!  Were  they?  Madness  after  all  was  merely  a 
matter  of  relative  mental  attitudes.  Doubtless  he  was  as 
mad  in  the  eyes  of  his  visitors  as  they  we:?"  to  him.  In 
his  present  mood  he  was  almost  ready  to  aoimt  that  the 
sanest  philosophy  of  life  was  that  which  brought  the 
greatest  happiness.  And  sanity  such  as  his  own  was  only 
a  sober  kind  of  madness  after  all,  a  quiet  mania  which 
sought  out  the  soul  of  things  and  in  the  seeking  fed  itself 
upon  the  problems  of  the  world,  a  diet  which  too  much 
prolonged  might  lead  to  mental  indigestion.  Morbid — 
was  he?  Introspective?  A  "grouch"?  He  was — he  must 
be — all  of  these  things. 

His  small  inquisitor  had  neglected  none  of  his  failings, 
had  practiced  her  glib  tongue  at  his  expense  in  the  few 
hours  in  which  she  had  taken  possession  of  Thimble  Island 
and  of  him.  What  a  child  she  was,  how  spoiled  and  how 
utterly  irresponsible!  He  identified  her  completely  now, 
Hermia  Challoner,  the  sole  heiress  of  all  Peter  Challoner's 
hard-gotten  millions,  the  heiress,  too,  it  was  evident,  of 
his  attitude  toward  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil;, 

57 


MADCAP 

Peter  Challoner,  by  profession  banker  and  captain  of  in- 
dustry, a  man  whose  name  was  remembered  the  breadth  of 
the  land  for  his  masterly  manipulation  of  a  continental 
railroad  which  eventually  came  under  his  control ;  an  or- 
ganizer of  trusts,  a  patron  saint  of  political  lobbyists,  a 
product  of  the  worst  and  of  the  best  of  modern  business ! 
This  girl  who  had  fallen  like  a  bright  meteor  across  Mark- 
ham's  sober  sky  this  morning  was  Peter  Challoner's 
daughter.  He  remembered  now  the  stories  he  had  heard 
and  read  of  her  caprices,  the  races  on  the  beach  at  Or- 
monde, her  fearlessness  in  the  hunting  field  and  the  wom- 
an's polo  team  she  had  organized  at  Cedarcroft  which 
she  had  led  against  a  team  of  men  on  a  Southern  field.  It 
had  all  been  in  the  newspapers  and  he  had  read  of  her 
with  a  growing  distaste  for  the  type  of  woman  which 
American  society  made  possible.  Peter  Challoner's 
daughter,  the  spoiled  darling  of  money  idolaters,  scrub- 
bing the  floor  of  his  kitchen ! 

As  he  sat  looking  out  over  the  bay  thinking  of  his  vis- 
itor, a  picture  rose  and  wreathed  itself  amid  the  smoke 
of  his  tobacco — the  vision  of  a  little  working  girl  in  New 
York,  a  girl  with  tired  eyes  and  a  patient  smile,  with  the 
faded  hair  and  the  faded  skin  which  came  from  too  few 
hours  of  recreation — from  too  many  uninterrupted  hours 
of  plodding  grind  at  the  tasks  her  employers  set  for 
her,  a  girl  who  would  have  been  as  pretty  as  Hermia 
Challoner  if  her  youth  had  only  been  given  its  chance. 
This  was  Dorothy  Herrick,  whose  father,  a  friend  of 
Markham's  father,  had  been  swallowed  up  in  one  of  the 
great  industrial  combinations  which  Peter  Challoner  had 
planned.  Markham,  who  had  been  studying  in  Paris  at 
the  time,  had  forgotten  the  details  of  Oliver  Herrick's 
downfall,  but  he  remembered  that  the  transaction  which 

58 


'WAKE   ROBIN3 


had  brought  it  about  had  not  even  been  broadly  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  ethics  of  modern  business,  and  that 
there  had  been  something  in  the  nature  of  sharp  practice 
on  Peter  Challoner's  part  which  had  enabled  him  to  ob- 
tain for  his  combination  the  mills  in  the  Wyoming  Valley 
which  had  been  in  the  Herrick  family  for  three  genera- 
tions. 

Markham  knew  little  of  business  and  hated  it  cor- 
dially, but  he  had  heard  enough  of  this  affair  to  be  sure 
that,  whatever  the  courts  had  decided,  Oliver  Herrick  had 
been  unfairly  dealt  with  and  that  a  part,  at  least,  of 
Peter  Challoner's  fortune  belonged  morally,  at  least,  to 
the  inconsiderable  mite  of  femininity  who  read  proof  in 
a  publisher's  office  in  New  York.  He  knew  something  of 
the  law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  for  he  himself  had 
survived  the  long  struggle  for  honors  which  had  put  him 
at  last  in  a  position  where  he  felt  secure  at  least  from  the 
pinch  of  poverty,  and  whatever  Oliver  Herrick's  failings 
among  the  larger  forces  with  which  he  had  been  brought 
into  contact,  Markham  knew  him  to  have  been  an  honest 
man,  a  good  father  and  a  faithful  gentleman.  Something 
was  wrong  with  a  world  which  pinched  the  righteous  be- 
tween the  grindstones  of  progress  and  let  the  evil  prosper. 

It  was  an  unfairness  which  descended  to  the  second 
generation  and  would  descend  through  the  years  until 
the  equalizing  forces  of  character  and  will — or  the  lack 
of  them — brought  later  generations  to  the  same  level 
of  condition.  Markham  could  not  help  comparing  Her- 
mia  Challoner  with  her  less  fortunate  sister — Hermia 
Challoner,  the  courted,  the  feted,  who  had  but  to  wish  for 
a  thing  to  have  it  granted,  with  Dorothy  Herrick,  the 
neglected  and  forgotten,  who  was  bartering  her  youth  for 
twelve  dollars  a  week  and  was  glad  to  get  the  money ;  one, 

59 


who  boasted  that  the  only  value  life  had  for  her  was  what 
she  could  get  out  of  it,  with  the  other,  who  almost  felt  it 
a  privilege  to  be  permitted  to  live  at  all.  The  more  he 
thought  of  these  two  girls,  the  more  convincing  was  his 
belief  that  Miss  Herrick  did  not  suffer  by  the  comparison. 
She  was  doing  just  what  thousands  of  other  girls  were 
doing  in  New  York,  with  no  more  patience  and  no  more 
self-sacrifice  than  they,  but  the  childish  vagaries  of  his 
visitor,  still  fresh  in  his  memory,  seemed  to  endow  Dor- 
othy Herrick  with  a  firmer  contour,  a  stronger  claim  on 
his  interest  and  sympathies. 

And  yet — this  little  madcap  aviatrix  disclosed  a  win- 
ning directness  and  simplicity  which  charmed  and  sur- 
prised him.  She  was  a  joyous  soul.  He  could  not  remem- 
ber a  morning  when  he  had  been  so  completely  abstracted 
from  the  usual  current  of  thought  and  occupation  as  to- 
day, and  whatever  the  faults  bequeathed  by  her  intrepid 
father,  she  was,  as  Markham  had  said  to  Olga,  quite 
human.  There  were  possibilities  in  the  child — and  it 
seemed  a  pity  that  no  strong  guiding  hand  led  the  way  on 
a  road  like  hers,  which  had  so  many  turnings.  She  was 
only  an  overgrown  child  as  yet,  flat  chested,  slender,  al- 
most a  boy,  and  yet  redeemed  to  femininity  by  an  uncon- 
scious coquetry  which  she  could  no  more  control  than  she 
could  the  warm  flush  of  her  blood;  a  child  indeed,  full  of 
quick  impulses  for  good  or  for  evil. 

Markham  rose,  knocked  the  ash  out  of  his  pipe, 
walked  over  to  his  canvas,  set  it  up  against  the  porch 
pillar  and  examined  it  leisurely.  But  in  a  moment  he  took 
it  indoors  and  added  it  to  the  pile  in  the  living-room, 
fetching  a  fresh  canvas  and  carrying  his  easel  and  paint- 
box over  the  hill  to  another  spot,  a  shady  one  among  the 
rocks  where  he  had  already  painted  many  times. 

60 


WAKE   ROBIN" 


He  worked  a  while  and  then  sat  and  smoked  again,  his 
thoughts  afar.  What  sort  of  an  influence  was  Olga 
Tcherny  for  the  mind  of  this  impressionable  child?  The 
Countess  was  clever,  generous  and  wonderfully  attractive 
to  men  and  to  women  but,  as  Markham  knew,  her  views 
of  life  were  liberal  and  she  was  not  wise — at  least,  not 
with  a  wisdom  which  would  help  Hermia  Challoner.  One 
doesn't  live  for  ten  years  in  Paris  in  the  set  in  which 
Markham  had  met  her  without  absorbing  something  of  its 
careless  creed,  its  loose  ethical  and  moral  standards.  New 
York  society,  he  knew,  reflected  much  that  was  bad,  and 
much  that  was  good  of  the  gay  worlds  of  Paris  and  Lon- 
don; for  Americans  are  unexcelled  in  the  talent  of  imita- 
tion, but  from  phrases  that  had  passed  Olga's  lips  he 
knew  that  she  had  outgrown  her  own  country. 

Markham  tried  to  paint  but  things  went  wrong  and  so 
he  gave  it  up,  swearing  silently  at  the  interruption  which 
had  spoiled  his  day.  After  lunch  he  tried  it  again  with  no 
better  success,  and  finally  gave  it  up  and,  taking  a  book, 
went  out  on  a  point  of  rocks  where  the  tide  swirled  and 
cast  in  a  fishing  line,  not  because  he  hoped  to  catch  any- 
thing but  because  fishing,  of  all  the  resources  available, 
had  most  surely  the  ways  of  peace.  The  book  was  a 
French  treatise  on  the  Marxian  philosophies — dull  read- 
ing for  a  summer's  day  when  the  water  lapped  merrily  at 
one's  feet,  the  breeze  sighed  softly,  laden  with  the  odors 
of  the  mysterious  deeps,  and  sea  and  sky  beckoned  him 
invitingly  into  the  realms  of  adventure  and  delight,  so 
dull  that,  the  fish  biting  not,  Markham  dozed,  and  at  last 
rolled  over  in  the  sunlight  and  slept. 

How  long  he  lay  there  he  did  not  know.  He  was  awak- 
ened by  the  exhaust  of  a  launch  close  at  hand  and  sat  up 
so  quickly  that  "Karl  Marx,"  rudely  jostled  by  his  elbow, 

61 


MADCAP 

went  sliding  over  the  edge  of  the  rock  and  into  the  sea. 
But  there  was  no  time  at  present  to  bewail  this  calamity 
for  the  man  in  the  launch  had  brought  her  inshore  and 
hailed  him  politely. 

"Mr.  Markham?"  he  questioned. 

Markham  nodded.    "That's  my  name,"  he  said. 

"A  note  for  you."  The  launch  moved  slowly  in  to- 
ward the  landing  and  Markham  met  his  visitor,  already 
aware  that  there  was  to  be  a  further  intrusion  on  his 
solitude.  He  broke  the  seal  of  the  note  and  read.  It  was 
from  Hermia  Challoner. 

DEAR  MR.  MARKHAM: 

Life,  as  you  see,  has  yielded  me  one  more  sensation  with- 
out penalty.  I  am  safe  at  home  again,  my  philosophy  tri- 
umphant over  yours.  There  isn't  a  great  deal  of  difference 
between  them  after  all.  You,  too,  take  from  life,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham — you  take  what  you  need  just  as  I  do;  but  just  because 
your  needs  differ  from  mine,  manlike,  you  assume  that  I  must 
be  wrong.  Perhaps  I  am.  Then  so  must  you,  because  you 
give  less  than  I  do. 

There  is  but  one  way  to  justify  yourself,  and  that  is  to 
give  up  what  you  are  hoarding — what  you  prize  most  highly — 
your  solitude.  We  want  you  at  "Wake  Robin,"  Mr.  Mark- 
ham.  Will  you  come  to  dine  and  stay  the  night?  By  so 
doing  you  will  at  least  show  an  amiable  disposition,  which  is 
.more  to  the  point  than  all  the  philosophy  in  the  world.  We 
are  very  informal  and  dine  at  eight. 

ft        I  am  sure  that  if  you  disappoint  us  Madame  Tcherny,  who 
is  already  tired  of  us  all,  will  perish  of  ennui. 

Very  cordially  yours, 

HERMIA  CHALLONER. 

Markham  read  the  note  through  and  turned  toward 
the  cabin  for  pen  and  paper. 

62 


"WAKE   ROBIN" 


"Will  you  moor  the  launch  and  come  ashore?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  the  man,  tinkering  with  the  engine, 
"I'll  wait  for  you  here.  Miss  Challoner  said  that  I  was 
to  wait." 

When  Markham  reached  the  bungalow  he  remembered 
suddenly  that  he  had  no  ink,  pen — or  indeed  paper,  and 
yet  a  verbal  reply  would  hardly  be  courteous.  He  stood 
in  the  doorway  puzzling  a  moment  and  then  went  over  to 
a  trunk  in  the  corner,  opened  it  and  began  pitching  its 
contents  about.  He  straightened  at  last,  put  some  gar- 
ments on  the  bed  and  looked  at  them  with  a  ruminative 
eye. 

"Oh,  I  had  better  go,"  he  muttered,  rubbing  the  rough- 
ness on  his  chin.  "I  owe  it  to  Olga.  But  why  the  devil 

they  can't  leave  a  fellow  alone "  and,  fuming  silently, 

he  shaved,  made  a  toilet,  and  packing  some  things  in  a 
much  battered  suit  case  made  his  way  to  the  launch. 

At  the  Westport  landing  he  found  the  Countess  Olga, 
wonderfully  attired  in  an  afternoon  costume  of  pale  green, 
awaiting  him  in  a  motor. 

"There's  a  chance  for  you  still,  my  friend,"  she 
laughed.  "You  have  won  my  fond  regard — and,  inciden- 
tally, the  cost  of  a  new  frock." 

"I?" 

"Yes.  We  laid  a  bet  as  to  whether  you  would  come, 
Hermia  and  I.  We've  been  watching  the  island  through 
the  telescope,  and  saw  you  embark — so  to  me — the  victor, 
falls  the  honor  of  conducting  you  home  in  triumph." 

"I'm  to  go  in  chains,  it  seems,"  he  laughed,  getting  in 
beside  her.  "I've  rarely  seen  you  looking  so  handsome." 

"You're  improving.  It's  joy,  mon  ami,  at  seeing  once 
again  a  full  grown  man.  I  have  been  bored — oh,  so  bored  1 
Will  you  be  nice  to  me?" 

63 


MADCAP 

The  motor  skimmed  smoothly  over  the  perfect  roads, 
mounting  the  hills  through  the  village  and  spinning  along 
a  turnpike  flanked  by  summer  residences.  "Wake  Robin" 
stood  at  some  distance  from  the  village  on  the  highest 
point  of  the  hills  and  made  a  very  imposing  vista  from  the 
driveway — an  English  house  with  long  wings  at  either 
side,  flanked  by  terraces,  lawns  and  gardens,  guarded  from 
the  intrusive  eyes  of  the  highway  by  a  high  privet  hedge. 
The  tennis  courts  seemed  to  be  the  center  of  interest  and 
in  a  corner  of  the  terrace  which  faced  the  bay  were  some 
people  taking  tea  and  watching  a  match  of  singles  be- 
tween Reggie  Armistead  and  their  hostess.  The  chauffeur 
took  the  suit  case  to  the  butler  and  Olga  Tcherny  led  the 
way  to  the  tea  table  where  Phyllis  Van  Vorst  was  pouring 
tea.  Beside  her  sat  a  tall  handsome  woman  with  a  hard 
mouth,  dressed  in  white  linen  and  a  picture  hat,  who 
ogled  him  tentatively  through  a  lorgnon  during  the  mo- 
ment of  introduction  before  permitting  her  face  to  relax 
into  a  smile  of  welcome. 

"So  glad,"  she  purred  at  last,  extending  a  long  slim 
hand  in  Markham's  direction.  "Phyllis,  do  give  Mr. 
Markham  some  tea." 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Markham,"  chortled  Miss  Van 
Vorst.  "Pm  afraid  you'll  have  to  put  up  with  the  Philis- 
tines for  a  while.  Hermia's  beating  Reggie  Armistead  at 
tennis,  and  it's  as  much  as  one's  life  is  worth  to  inter- 
rupt." 

"That's  no  joke,"  said  Archie  Westcott,  who  was 
watching  the  game.  "Some  tennis,  that.  They're  one  set 
all  and  Hermia  just  broke  through  Reggie's  service. 
That  makes  it  five  four." 

Markham,  teacup  in  hand,  followed  the  Countess  to 
the  balustrade  and  watched.  One  would  never  have  sup- 

64 


"WAKE  ROBIN" 


posed  from  the  way  she  played  that  this  girl  had  been  up 
since  dawn  and  suffered  an  accident  which  had  tempo- 
rarily incapacitated  her.  Youth  was  triumphant.  Vigor, 
suppleness  and  grace  marked  every  movement,  the  smash- 
ing overhand  service,  the  cat-like  spring  to  the  net,  the 
quick  recovery,  the  long  free  swing  of  the  volley  from  the 
back-court,  all  of  which  showed  form  of  a  high  order.  It 
was  man's  tennis  that  the  girl  was  playing  and  Reggie 
Armistead  needed  all  his  cleverness  to  hold  her  at  even 
terms.  It  was  an  ancient  grudge,  Markham  learned,  and 
an  even  thing  in  the  betting,  but  Armistead  pulled  through 
by  good  passing  and  made  the  sets  deuce. 

"Gad !  It  makes  me  hot  to  look  at  'em !"  said  Crosby 
Downs,  fingering  at  his  collar  band,  his  face  brick-color 
from  the  day  in  the  open.  "Make  'em  stop,  somebody." 

He  dropped  into  a  wicker  chair  and  fanned  vigorously 
with  his  hat. 

"Lord!  Golf  is  bad  enough.  Oh,  what's  the  use,"  he 
sighed  heavily. 

"Been  golfing,  Crosby?"  smiled  the  Countess. 

"Oh,  call  it  that  if  you  like,"  he  growled.  "Rotten 
game,  that.  Doctor's  orders.  A  hundred  and  ten  to-day. 
Couldn't  hit  the  earth  even  and  there  were  acres  of  it." 

"Living  up  to  your  reputation,  Crosby,"  sneered  Carol 
Gouverneur.  "Sans  putt  et  sans  approach?" 

"You've  struck  it,  young  man.  Sans  anything,  but 
that  Weary  Willie  feelin'  and  a  devourin'  thirst.  But  I 
lost  four  pounds,"  he  added  more  cheerfully — his  fingers 
demonstrating  in  his  waistband.  "Oh,  I'll  put  it  on  again 
to-night  at  dinner.  Silly  ass  business — this  runnin' 
around  in  the  sun." 

"Quite  so,"  Olga  agreed,  "but  everything  we  do  is  silly 
and  asinine." 

65 


MADCAP 

There  was  an  outburst  of  applause  from  the  others 
at  a  particularly  brilliant  shot  below. 

"By  George!"  cried  Westcott,  "she's  got  him.  It's 
Hermia's  vantage  and  forty-love.  O  Reggie!  A  love 
game,  by  Jiminy!  Hermia,  you've  won  me  a  cool  hun- 
dred." 

The  game  was  over  and  the  players  shook  hands  be- 
fore the  net,  Hermia  laughing  gaily,  Armistead's  eyes  full 
of  honest  adoration.  They  were  handsome  children,  those 
two. 

Hermia  climbed  the  steps  slowly  amid  the  congratula- 
tions of  the  guests  and  smiled  as  Markham  came  forward 
to  meet  her.  She  was  rosy  as  a  cherub,  her  bright  hair 
tumbled  beneath  her  crimson  hair-band. 

"Very  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Markham,"  she  said 
breathlessly.  "I  had  my  eye  in,  and  couldn't  stop.  I 
simply  had  to  beat  Reggie,  you  know,"  And  then  as  her 
responsibilities  recurred  to  her,  "You've  met  everybody? 
Mrs.  Renshaw,  Miss  Coddington — Mr.  Markham — the 
Hermit  of  Thimble  Island." 

With  a  laugh  she  led  him  away  from  the  others  and 
threw  herself  in  a  lounge  chair  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat 
nearby. 

"You  see,"  she  said  gaily,  "here  I  am — quite  safe — 
and  ready  to  mock  at  all  seriousness — the  grasshopper 
entertaining  the  ant.  Do  you  think  you  can  stand  so 
much  gayety,  Mr.  Markham?" 

"Even  an  ant  must  have  its  moments  of  frivolity." 

"You  frivolous!"  she  smiled. 

"I've  always  wanted  to  be.  It's  one  of  my  secret 
longings.  I  was  born  old.  Show  me  how  to  be  young  and 
I'll  give  you  anything  I  possess." 

"That's  tempting.    I  think  I'll  begin  at  once." 

66 


"WAKE   ROBIN" 


He  laughed.    "At  what?" 

She  scrutinized  him  from  top  to  toe. 

"Oh,  at  your  goggles." 

He  fingered  his  glasses. 

"These?" 

She  nodded. 

He  took  them  off  and  looked  at  them  amusedly. 

"That's  the  first  step.  You're  ten  years  younger 
already,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  am  I?" 

"Yes.    I'm  sure  of  it — when  you  don't  frovrn." 

"And  next?" 

"You  must  flirt,  Mr.  Markham — and  make  pretty 
speeches " 

"Pretty  speeches !" 

"Oh,  yes — you  must  treat  every  woman  as  though  you 
adored  her  secretly,  and  when  ladies  visit  your  studio  you 
mustn't  bang  the  door  in  their  faces." 

"Did  I  do  that?" 

"Er — figuratively,  yes.  You  were  very  impolite." 
She  lay  back  and  laughed  at  him.  "There — I  feel  better. 
Now  we  shall  be  good  friends." 

He  fingered  his  goggles  a  moment,  and  then  his  eyes 
met  hers  in  frank  agreement. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said,  with  a  slow  smile.  "I  like 
you  a  great  deal." 

She  straightened,  her  eyes  sparkling  merrily. 

"You  see?  You're  improving  already.  I  have  great 
hopes  for  you,  Mr.  Markham."  She  threw  a  glance  at 
the  others  and  rose.  "Here  endeth  the  first  lesson.  It  is 
time  to  dress.  We  will  resume  after  dinner.  That  is," 
she  added,  "if  Olga  will  spare  you  for  a  few  moments." 

"Olga — Madame  Tcherny  won't  mind  in  the  least,"  he 

67 


MADCAP 

laughed.  "If  you  can  make  me  anybody  but  myself,  she 
will  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  Madame 
Tcherny  is  already  at  the  point  of  giving  me  up  as  a  hope- 
less case." 

"In  what  respect?" 

"Oh,  in  all  respects.  I'm  a  great  disappointment  to 
her "  He  stopped  suddenly.  "I  mean  socially — pro- 
fessionally. You  see  I'm  not  the  stuff  that  successful  por- 
trait painters  are  made  of " 

"Except  perhaps  that  you  really  can  paint?"  she 
asked  over  her  shoulder. 

He  shrugged  and  followed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
OLGA   TCHERNY 

AS  the  guests  gathered  in  the  drawing-room  and  on 
the  terrace  before  dinner  it  was  apparent  to 
Markham  that,  unless  he  obeyed  the  injunctions 
of  his  small  perceptor,  he  would  be  quite  forgotten  amid 
this  gay  company.  On  Thimble  Island,  as  in  New  York, 
he  had  not  found  them  necessary  to  his  own  existence,  and 
it  was  quite  clear  that  here  at  "Wake-Robin"  they  re- 
turned his  indifference.  After  the  first  nod  and  apprais- 
ing glance  in  his  direction,  Crosby  Downs  and  Carol 
Gouverneur  had  completely  ignored  him.  Archie  West- 
cott  had  unbent  to  the  point  of  offering  him  a  cigarette, 
and  Trewy  Morehouse,  who  had  joined  them  over  the 
cocktails,  and  injected  polite  bromidics  into  the  conver- 
sation which  Reggie  Armistead,  who  knew  nothing  of 
Markham's  art  and  cared  less,  only  saved  by  some  whole- 
some enthusiasm,  in  which  all  joined,  over  the  "sand"  and 
all-around  good  fellowship  of  their  hostess. 

But  it  required  little  assurance  to  make  one's  self  at 
home  here  where  informality  seemed  to  be  the  rule,  and 
before  Hermia  and  the  Countess  came  down  Markham 
found  himself  on  easy  terms  with  the  group  he  had  j  oined. 
Mrs.  Renshaw's  appraisal  and  patronizing  air  dismayed 
him  less  than  the  china  blue  eyes  of  Phyllis  Van  Vorst 
which  she  raised  with  a  pretty  effectiveness  to  his ;  Hilda 
Ashhurst  hadn't  even  taken  the  trouble  to  notice  him. 
When  Carol  Gouverneur  was  in  her  neighborhood  there 
were  no  other  men  in  the  world. 

69 


MADCAP 

But  Hermia  took  pains  to  make  her  guests  aware  of 
the  status  of  Mr.  Markham  in  her  house  by  seating  him  on 
her  right  at  dinner  and  paying  him  an  assiduous  attention 
which  detracted  something  from  Reggie  Armistead's  in- 
terest, as  well  as  Olga's,  in  that  repast. 

With  a  carelessness  which  put  him  off  his  guard  Her- 
mia drew  him  into  the  general  conversation,  aroused  his 
sense  of  humor,  until  with  a  story  of  an  experience  in 
France,  which  he  told  with  a  dry  wit  that  well  suited  him, 
he  found  himself  the  center  of  interest  at  the  head  of  the 
table. 

Out  on  the  terrace  over  the  coffee  and  tobacco,  the 
compound  slowly  resolved  itself  into  its  elements,  social 
and  sentimental.  Markham,  scarcely  aware  of  the  precise 
moment  when  she  had  appropriated  him,  found  himself  in 
the  garden  below  the  terrace  with  Olga  Tcherny.  The 
heavy  odor  of  the  roses  was  about  them,  unstirred  by  the 
land  breeze  which  faintly  sighed  in  the  treetops.  A  warm 
moon  hung  over  Thimble  Island,  its  soft  lights  catching 
in  the  ornaments  Markham's  companion  wore,  caressing 
her  white  shoulders  and  dusky  hair,  and  softening  the 
shadows  in  her  eyes  which  peered  like  those  of  a  seer 
down  the  path  of  light  where  the  moonbeams  played  upon 
the  water. 

He  had  always  thought  her  handsome,  but  to-night 
she  was  a  fragment  of  the  night  itself,  with  all  its  tender- 
ness and  its  melancholy  mystery.  He  watched  her  slender 
figure  as  she  reached  forward,  plucked  a  rose  and  raised 
its  petals  to  her  lips — a  full  blown  rose,  wasting  its  last 
hours  of  loveliness.  She  fastened  it  in  her  corsage  and 
led  the  way  to  a  stone  bench  beneath  an  arbor  at  the  end 
of  the  wall  where  she  sat  and  motioned  to  the  place  be- 
side her. 

70 


The  accord  which  existed  between  these  two  was  un- 
usual because  of  the  total  difference  in  their  points  of 
view  on  life  and  the  habits  of  thought  which  made  each 
the  negative  pole  of  the  other.  However  unusual  Mark- 
ham  may  have  appeared  to  a  person  of  Olga  Tcherny's 
training,  he  was  not  an  unusual  young  man  in  the  ordi- 
nary sense.  He  had  always  taken  life  seriously,  from  the 
hour  when  as  a  clerk  in  a  broker's  office  he  had  started  to 
work  at  night  at  the  League  in  New  York,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  becoming  a  painter.  He  was  no  more  serious  tha,n 
thousands  of  other  young  men  who  plan  their  lives  early 
~~i  live  them  up  to  specifications;  but  Olga  Tcherny, 
wno  had  flitted  a  zig-zag  butterfly  course  among  the  ex- 
otics, now  found  in  the  meadows  she  had  scorned  a  shrub 
quite  to  her  liking.  Markham  was  the  most  refreshingly 
original  person  she  had  ever  met.  He  always  said  exactly 
what  he  thought  and  refused  to  speak  at  all  unless  he  had 
something  to  say.  Those  hours  in  the  studio  when  he  had 
painted  her  portrait  had  been  hours  to  remember,  sound, 
sane  hours  in  which  they  had  discussed  many  things  not 
comprehended  in  her  philosophy,  when  he  had  led  her  by 
easy  stages  up  the  steep  path  he  had  climbed  until  she  had 
gained,  from  the  pinnacle  of  his  successes,  a  vista  of  what 
had  lain  beneath.  Unconsciously  he  had  drawn  upon  her 
mentality  until,  surprised  at  its  own  existence,  it  had 
awakened  to  life  and  responded  to  his.  To  make  her  men- 
,tal  subjection  the  more  complete,  he  had  in  his  simplicity 
peered  like  a  child  through  all  her  disguises  and  painted 
her  soul  as  he  saw  it — as  it  was.  The  flattery  was  the 
more  effectual  because  of  its  subtlety  and  because  she 
knew,  as  he  did,  that  in  it  there  was  no  guile,  no  self- 
interest  or  sentimentality.  And  in  return  she  could  have 
paid  him  no  higher  compliment  than  when  coolly,  almost 

71 


MADCAP 

coldly,  she  told  him  of  her  life  and  what  she  had  made 
of  it. 

She  was  very  winning  to-night — very  gentle  and  wom- 
anly— more  English  than  French  or  Russian,  more  Ameri- 
can than  either.  Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  long  while. 
Such  words  as  they  could  speak  would  have  taken  some- 
thing from  the  perfection  of  their  background.  But 
Markham  thought  of  her  as  he  had  frequently  done, 
thankful  again  for  the  benefits  of  her  regard,  the  genuine- 
ness of  which  she  had  brought  home  to  him  in  many  ma- 
terial ways. 

To  Olga  alone  there  was  a  peril  in  the  silence,  a  peril 
for  the  sanity  he  had  taught  her,  for  the  pact  which  , 
had  made  with  herself.  She  had  eaten  the  bread  and  salt 
of  his  friendship  and  had  given  him  hers.  He  believed  in 
her  and  she  could  not  deceive  him.  She  knew  his  nature 
well.  She  had  not  been  a  student  of  men  all  her  life  for 
nothing.  It  would  have  been  so  easy  to  lie  to  him,  to  be- 
fuddle and  bewitch  him,  to  bring  him  to  her  feet  by  unfair 
means.  But  she  had  scorned  to  use  them.  For  her,  John 
Markham  had  been  taboo.  But  there  was  peril  in  the 
silence.  She  sat  looking  into  the  wake  of  the  moon  in  the 
water,  very  quiet,  tense  and  almost  breathless. 

"You're  glad  you  came?"  she  asked  at  last  in  the  tones 
of  matter  and  fact. 

"Yes,  I  am.  You've  been  too  kind  and  patient  with 
me,  Olga." 

He  laid  his  hand  over  hers  with  a  genuine  impulse.  It 
did  not  move  beneath  his  touch  or  return  his  pressure. 

"Yes,"  she  said  cooUy,  "I  think  I  have." 

"Have  I  offended  you?" 

"No.  Not  at  all — only  disappointed  me  a  little.  I 
had  such  nice  plans  for  you." 

72 


OLGA    TCHERNY 


He  laughed. 

"Olga,  you're  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world. 
I  don't  deserve  your  friendship.  But  I  did  want  to  loaf — 
I  worked  pretty  hard  last  winter." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  evade  me.  I  can't  make  you  like  my 
friends.  But  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  disappoint  them.  Mrs. 
Berkley  Hammond,  the  Gormeley  twins,  and  now  Her- 
mia " 

"Miss  Challoner!"  in  surprise.  "Her  portrait!  I 
thought  she  disapproved  of  my  method." 

She  smiled.  "Oh,  you  don't  know  Hermia  as  I  do. 
One  is  never  more  certain  in  one's  judgment  of  her  than 
when  one  thinks  one  is  wrong."  She  gave  a  short  laugh. 
"At  any  rate,  she  said  she  was  going  to  speak  to  you 
about  it." 

"That's  curious,"  he  muttered. 

"Will  you  do  it?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  away  toward  the  terrace. 

"I  hadn't  planned  to  do  any  portraits  until  Fall." 

"Doesn't  she  interest  you?"  she  continued  quickly. 

"She's  paintable — it  would  be  profitable,  of 
course " 

"You're  evading  again." 

"Yes,  she  interests  me,"  he  said  frankly.  "She's 
clever,  amiable,  hospitable — and  quite  irresponsible.  But 
then  she  would  want  to  be  'pretty.'  I'm  afraid  I  should 
only  make  her  childish." 

"Oh,  she's  prepared  for  the  worst.  You  had  better 
paint  her.  It  will  do  you  a  lot  of  good.  Besides,  you 
paint  better  when  you're  a  little  contemptuous." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  could  take  that  attitude  toward 
Miss  Challoner,"  he  said  slowly.  "She's  too  good  for  the 

crowd  she  runs  with,  that's  sure,  and " 

73 


MADCAP 

"Thanks,"  laughed  Olga.  "You  always  had  a  neat 
turn  for  flattery." 

But  he  didn't  laugh. 

"I  mean  it,"  he  went  on  warmly.  "She's  too  good  for 
them — and  so  are  you.  Mrs.  Renshaw,  a  woman  notorious 
even  in  New  York,  who  at  the  age  of  thirty  has  already 
changed  husbands  three  times,  drained  them  and  thrown 
them  aside  as  one  would  a  rotten  orange ;  Hilda  Ashhurst 
who  plays  cards  for  a  living  and  knows  how  to  win; 
Crosby  Downs,  a  merciless  voluptuary  who  makes  a  god 
of  his  belly;  Archie  Westcott,  the  man  Friday  of  every 
Western  millionaire  with  social  ambitions  who  comes  to 
New  York — a  man  who  lives  by  his  social  connections,  his 
wits  and  his  looks ;  Carol  Gouverneur,  his  history  needn't 
be  repeated " 

"Nor  mine "  finished  Olga  quietly,  "you  needn't 

go  on."  The  calmness  of  her  tone  only  brought  its  bitter- 
ness into  higher  relief.  Markham  stopped,  turned  and 
caught  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"No,  not  yours,  Olga.  God  knows  I  didn't  mean  that. 
You're  not  their  kind,  soulless,  cynical,  selfish  and  narrow 
social  parasites  who  poison  what  they  feed  on  and  live  in 
the  idleness  that  better  men  and  women  have  bought  for 
them.  Call  them  your  crowd  if  you  like.  I  know  better. 
You've  only  taken  people  as  you've  found  them — taken 
life  as  it  was  planned  for  you — moved  along  the  line  of 
least  resistance  because  you'd  never  been  taught  that 
there  was  any  other  way  to  go.  .In  Europe  you  never  had 
a  chance  to  learn " 

"That's  it,"  she  broke  in  passionately,  "I  never  had  a 
chance — not  a  chance." 

Her  fingers  clutched  his  and  then  quickly  released 
them. 

74 


OLGA    TCHERNY 


"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  she  went  on  in  a  stifled  tone. 
"Why  couldn't  you  have  let  me  live  on,  steeped  in  my 
folly?  It's  too  late  for  me  to  change.  I  can't.  I'm 
pledged.  If  I  gamble,  keep  late  hours,  and  do  all  the 
things  that  this  set  does  it's  because  if  I  didn't  I  should 
die  of  thinking.  What  does  it  matter  to  any  one  but  me  ?" 

She  stopped  and  rose  with  a  sudden  gesture  of  anger. 

"Don't  preach,  John.  I'm  not  in  the  humor  for  it — 
not  to-night — do  you  hear?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  surprise.  One  of  her  hands 
was  clenched  on  the  balustrade  and  her  dark  eyes  re- 
garded him  scornfully. 

"I've  made  you  angry  ?    I'm  sorry,"  he  said. 

The  tense  lines  of  her  figure  suddenly  relaxed  as  she 
leaned  against  the  pergola  and  then  laughed  up  at  the 
sky. 

"Would  you  preach  to  the  stars,  John  Markham? 
They're  a  merry  congregation.  They're  laughing  at  you 
— as  I  am.  A  sermon  by  moonlight  with  only  the  stars 
and  a  scoffer  to  listen !" 

Her  mockery  astonished  and  bewildered  him.  His  in- 
dictment of  those  with  whom  she  affiliated  was  no  new 
thing  in  their  conversations,  and  he  knew  that  what  he 
had  said  was  true. 

"I'm  sorry  I  spoke,"  he  muttered. 

She  laughed  at  him  again  and  threw  out  her  arms  to- 
ward the  moonlit  sea. 

"What  a  night  for  the  moralities — for  the  ashes  of 
repentance!  I  ask  a  man  into  the  rose-garden  to  make 
love  to  me  and  he  preaches  to  me  instead — preaches  to  me! 
of  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil,  par  exemple!  Was 
ever  a  pretty  woman  in  a  more  humiliating  position !" 

She  approached  him  again  and  leaned  over  him,  the 

75 


MADCAP  

strands  of  her  hair  brushing  his  temples,  her  voice  whis- 
pering mockingly  just  at  his  ear. 

"Oh,  la  la !  You  make  such  a  pretty  lover,  John.  If 
I  could  only  paint  you  in  your  sackcloth  and  ashes,  I 
should  die  in  content.  What  is  it  like,  man  ami,  to  feel 
like  moralizing  in  a  rose-garden  by  moonlight?  What  do 
they  tell  you — the  roses?  Of  the  dull  earth  from  which 
they  come  ?  Don't  they  whisper  of  the  kisses  of  the  night 
winds,  of  the  drinking  of  the  dew — of  the  mad  joy  of 
living — the  sweetness  of  dying?  Or  don't  they  say  any- 
thing to  you  at  all — except  that  they  are  merely  roses, 
John?" 

She  brushed  the  blossom  in  her  fingers  lightly  across 
his  lips  and  sprang  away  from  him.  But  it  was  too  late. 
She  had  gone  too  far  and  she  realized  it  in  a  moment ;  for 
though  she  eluded  him  once,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  roughly  on  the  lips. 

" You'd  mock  at  me,  would  you?"  he  cried. 

She  struggled  in  his  arms  and  then  lay  inert.  She  de- 
served this  revenge  she  knew,  but  not  the  carelessness  of 
these  kisses  of  retribution,  each  of  them  merciless  with 
the  burden  of  her  awakening. 

"Let  me  go,  John,"  she  said  faintly.  "You  must 
not " 

"Not  yet.    I'm  no  man  of  stone.  Can  you  scoff  now?" 

"No,  no.  Let  me  go.  I've  paid  you  well  and  you 

O  God !  you've  paid  me,  too.  Let  me  go." 

"Not  until  you  kiss  me." 

"No— not  that." 

"Why?"  he  whispered. 

"No — never  that !    Oh,  the  damage  you  have  done !" 

"I'll  repair  it " 

"No.  You  can't  bring  the  dead  to  life  *  »  *  our 

76 


friendship  ...  it  was  so  clean  .  ,  ,  Let  me  go, 
do  you  hear?" 

But  he  only  laughed  at  her. 

"You'll  kiss  me " 

"Never !" 

"You  shall " 

"Never !" 

He  raised  her  face  to  his.  She  quivered  under  his 
touch,  but  her  lips  were  insensate,  and  upon  his  hand  a 
drop  of  moisture  fell — a  tear  limpid,  pure  from  the  hidden 
springs  of  the  spirit.  He  kissed  its  piteous  course  upon 
her  cheek. 

"Olga !"  he  whispered  softly.    "What  have  I  done?" 

"Killed  something  in  me — I  think — something  gentle 
and  noble  that  was  trying  so  hard  to  live -" 

"Forgive  me,"  he  stammered.  "I  didn't  know  you 
cared  so  much." 

She  started  in  his  arms,  then  slowly  released  herself, 
and  drew  away  while  with  an  anxious  gaze  he  followed  her. 

"Our  friendship — I  cared  for  that  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world,"  she  said  simply. 

"It  shall  be  stronger,"  he  began. 

"No — friendship  does  not  thrive  on  kisses." 

"Love "  he  began.  But  her  quick  gesture  silenced 

him. 

"Love,  boy !    What  can  you  know  of  love !" 

"Nothing.     Teach  me !" 

She  looked  up  into  his  face,  her  hands  upon  his  shoul- 
ders holding  him  at  arm's  length,  flushed  with  her  empty 
victory — ice-cold  with  self  contempt  at  the  means  she 
had  used  to  accomplish  it.  Another  man — a  man  of  her 
own  world — would  have  played  the  game  as  she  had  played 
it,  mistrusting  the  tokens  she  had  shown  and  taking  her 

77 


coquetry  at  its  worldly  value ;  would  have  kissed  and  per- 
haps forgotten  the  next  morning.  But  as  she  looked  in 
Markham's  eyes  she  saw  with  dismay  that  he  still  read  her 
heart  correctly  and  that  the  pact  of  truthfulness  which 
neither  of  them  had  broken  was  considered  a  pact  between 
them  still.  Her  gaze  fell  before  his  and  she  turned  away, 
sure  now  that  for  the  sake  of  her  pride  she  must  deceive 
him. 

"No,  I  can  teach  you  nothing,  it  seems,  except,  per- 
haps, that  you  should  not  make  the  arms  of  your  lady 
black  and  blue.  Love  is  a  zephyr,  mon  ami,  not  a  tor- 
nado." 

He  stared  at  her,  bewildered  by  the  sudden  transfor- 
mation. 

"I — I  kissed  you,"  he  said  stupidly.  "You  wanted 
me  to." 

"Did  I?"  she  taunted  him.  "Who  knows?  If  I  did" — 
examining  her  wrist — "I  have  now  every  reason  to  re- 
gret it." 

He  stood  peering  down  at  her  from  his  great  height, 
his  thoughts  tumbling  into  words. 

"Don't  lie  to  me,  Olga.  You  were  not  content  with 
friendship.  No  woman  ever  is.  You  wanted  me  to  do — 
what  I  have  done." 

"Perhaps,"  she  admitted  calmly,  "but  not  the  way  you 
did  it.  Kissing  should  be  done  upon  the  soft  pedal  mon 
ami,  adagio,  con  amore.  Your  technique  is  rusty.  Is  it  a 
wonder  that  I  am  disappointed  ?" 

She  was  mocking  him  again,  but  this  time  he  was  not 
deceived. 

"Perhaps  I  will  improve  with  practice,"  he  muttered. 

He  would  have  seized  her  again  but  she  eluded  him, 
laughing. 

78 


OLGA    TCHERNY 


"Thank  you,  no "  she  cried. 

He  went  toward  her  again,  but  she  sprang  behind  the 
bench,  Markham  following,  both  intent  upon  their  game. 
He  had  seized  her  again  when  suddenly  over  their  very 
heads  there  was  a  sound  of  feminine  laughter  among  the 
vines  from  which  there  immediately  emerged  a  white  satin 
slipper,  a  slender  white  ankle,  followed  quickly  by  another 
— draperies,  and  at  last  Hermia  Challoner,  who,  swinging 
for  a  moment  by  her  hands,  dropped  breathlessly  upon 
the  bench  between  them.  Markham,  whose  nose  had  been 
narrowly  missed  by  the  flying  slippers,  drew  back  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"Hello!"  panted  Hermia,  laughing.  "Reggie  was 
chasing  me,  so  I  slipped  over  the  balustrade  onto  the 
pergola "  She  stopped  and  looked  with  quick  intui- 
tion from  one  to  the  other.  "Sorry  I  blunder'd  in  here, 
though,  Olga — awfully  sorry.  Did  I  kick  you  in  the  nose, 
Mr.  Markham?" 


CHAPTER  IX 

OUT  OF   HIS   DEPTH 

MARKHAM  stammered  something,  but  Olga  was 
laughing  softly.    "Hermia,  darling,  you  always 
do  go  into  things  feet  first,  but  it's  perilous  in 
French  heels.     Mr.  Markham  and  I  were  just  trying  to 
decide  whether  this  stone  bench  wouldn't  be  just  the  place 

to  do  your  portrait.    If  you'll  observe " 

The  situation  was  so  palpable.  Hermia  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  amusedly.  Markham  was  following 
Olga's  artistic  dissertation  with  the  eye  of  dubiety,  but 
their  hostess  was  merciless. 

"Olga,  dear,"  she  inquired  sweetly,  "did  you  know  your 
back  hair  was  down?" 

"Oh,  is  it?  How  provoking!  Georgette  is  positively 
worthless !" 

Even  Olga's  resourcefulness  was  not  proof  against 
Hermia's  persistent  audacity,  especially  as  she  was  aware 
of  a  smudge  of  face-powder  on  John  Markham's  coat 
lapel  which  could  not  have  been  attributed  by  any  chance 
to  the  deficiencies  of  her  unlucky  maid. 

"Poor  Georgette!"  said  Hermia  softly,  watching 
Olga's  fingers  quickly  twist  the  erring  strand  into  place. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the 
walk  and  Reggie  Armistead,  who,  like  an  ubiquitous  ter- 
rier, had  at  last  found  the  scent,  came  down  the  arbor  on 
the  run  with  Trewy  Morehouse  after  him,  a  poor  second, 
and  emerged  upon  the  scene. 

80 


OUT   OF  HIS   DEPTH 


"You're  mine "  cried  Reggie  triumphantly.  "I 

win !"  He  moved  forward  and  would  have  caught  Hermia 
around  the  waist,  but  she  dodged  him. 

"Reggie,"  she  cried,  "how  dare  you !" 

"Oh,  don't  mind  us,"  laughed  Olga. 

"I  don't "  he  said  stoutly.  "But  I  got  here  first, 

Olga,  didn't  I?" 

"You  surely  did " 

"I'm  glad  to  have  witnesses.  Hermia's  dreadfully 
slippery,  you  know." 

Olga,  who  had  dropped  into  a  corner  of  the  stone 
bench,  looked  up  languidly. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  us  what  it  all  means?"  she 
asked. 

Hermia  laughed.     "May  I,  Trewy?" 

The  excellent  Trevelyan  smiled  politely  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"By  all  means — since  I  have  no  further  interest  in  the 
matter." 

"It's  too  amusing.  They  were  to  give  me  ten  min- 
utes' start  from  the  house — the  two  of  them.  Oh,  what  a 
lark!"  she  laughed.  "I  made  for  the  Maze,  while  they 
watched  me  from  the  drawing-room  windows ;  but  instead 
of  going  in,  I  skirted  the  edge  and  crept  through  the 
bushes  on  the  other  side.  By  the  time  they  had  reached 
the  privet  hedge,  I  had  gone  through  the  house  from  the 
kitchen  to  the  terrace  again,  where  I  sat  for  ten  minutes 
entirely  alone  laughing  and  watching  those  geese  chasing 
each  other  around  in  the  moonlight.  I've  never  had  such 
fun  since  I  was  born." 

"Geese !    Oh,  I  say,  Hermia !" 

"Then  Reggie  came  out  sniffing  the  breeze  and  I  had 
to  run  for  cover,  so  I  slipped  over  the  balustrade  to  the 

81 


MADCAP 

pergola,  down  which  I  crept  on  my  hands  and  knees  and 
dropped  through — and  here  I  am,"  she  concluded. 

"But  what  is  it  all  about?"  asked  Olga  again. 

"It  means  that  Hermia  is  mine — for  a  month,"  said 
Reggie,  glowing.  "She  promised — you  couldn't  go  back 
on  that,  Hermia.  Could  she,  Olga  ?"  he  appealed. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Do  you  mean  engaged  to 
you?"  she  asked  curiously. 

"Yes — for  a  month,"  said  Reggie.  "The  idea  was  to 
try  and  see  if  she  really  could  like  either  of  us  well 
enough  to " 

"I  didn't  really  promise  anything,"  Hermia  broke  in, 
severely.  "I  merely  agreed " 

"She  did,  Olga,"  he  insisted.  "I  knew  she'd  be  trying 
to  wriggle." 

Olga  was  laughing  silently. 

"You're  admirably  suited  to  each  other,  you  two. 
You're  actually  quarreling  already." 

"We  always  do " 

"Then  marry  at  once,  my  dears." 

Hermia  glanced  at  Markham,  who  was  leaning  over 
the  back  of  the  bench  watching  the  scene  with  alien  eyes. 
She  turned  toward  Armistead  frankly  with  an  extended 
hand,  which  he  promptly  seized. 

"You  are  a  nice  boy,  Reggie.  I'll  try  it.  But  you'll 
have  to  promise " 

"Oh,  I'll  promise  anything,"  cried  Reggie  rapturously. 

The  excellent  Trevelyan  watched  them  a  moment  in 
silence,  and  then  lighting  his  cigarette  slowly  wandered 
away. 

Hermia  and  Armistead  followed  hand  in  hand,  but  not 
before  Hermia  had  turned  her  head  over  her  shoulder  and 
whispered  mischievously  to  Olga: 

82 


OUT   OF   HIS   DEPTH 


"You  can  sit  as  many  risks  as  you  run,  Olga,  dar- 
ling." 

In  the  moments  which  had  passed  during  this  interest- 
ing revelation  Olga  Tcherny  had  been  thinking — desper- 
ately. The  taste  of  life  had  never  been  so  sweet  in  her 
mouth — nor  so  bitter.  With  the  departure  of  the  trio 
Markham  had  not  moved,  but  his  eyes  followed  the  two 
figures  through  the  rose  garden.  The  moon  was  suddenly 
snuffed  out  and  the  sea  grew  lead-color — like  a  passion 
that  has  gone  stale.  Markham's  silhouette  loomed  mon- 
strous against  the  sky,  and  the  silence  was  abruptly 
broken  by  the  rough  laughter  of  Crosby  Downs  from 
somewhere  in  the  distance.  Olga  shivered  and  rose. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let's  follow." 

Markham  straightened  slowly  and  stood  before  her, 
one  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Olga,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  paused,  but  she  didn't  look  up  at  him,  and  gently 
she  took  his  fingers  from  her  arm. 

"It's  a  pity "  he  stopped  again.  "What  you  said 

was  true.  You — and  I — one  of  us  has  killed  the  old  rela- 
tion between  us." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured. 

"Can  we  forget — to-night " 

"No,  no,"  she  said.    "Never.    I  know." 

"Will  you  forgive  me?" 

"There's  nothing  to  forgive." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Nothing  to  forgive  if  you  were  only  amusing  your- 
self— much  to  forgive  if  you  really  care !" 

His  ingenuousness  was  alarming. 

" 'Par  exemple!"  She  bantered  him.  "You  mean  that 
I— that  I  love  you?" 

83 


MADCAP 

"Yes,  I  mean  just  that." 

She  took  quick  refuge  in  laughter. 

"You  are  the  most  surprising  creature!  Much  as  I 
esteem,  I  cannot  flatter  you  so  much  as  that."  And  she 
drew  away  from  him,  still  laughing  softly. 

"I  have  done  you  a  wrong,"  he  went  on  steadily. 

His  simplicity  was  heroic.  She  did  not  dare  question 
him. 

"You  have  a  New  England  conscience,  mon  ami"  she 
said,  gently  ironical.  "Your  code  is  meshed  in  the  cob- 
webs of  antiquity.  One  kisses  in  the  moonlight — or  one 
doesn't  kiss.  What  is  the  difference?  It  is  a  pastime — 
not  a  tragedy.  Je  m'amusais.  I  fished  for  minnows  and 
caught  a  Tartar — voila  tout.  I  love  you — I  do  love  you 
— but  only  when  you  paint,  monsieur  I'artiste — then  you 
are  magnificent — a  companion  to  the  gods!  When  you 
kiss Oh,  la  la !  You  are — er — paleozoic !" 

It  was  Olga's  master  stroke.  She  could  parry  no 
longer  and  must  thrust  if  she  would  survive.  The  tender- 
ness that  his  gaucherie  aroused  in  her  made  her  the  more 
merciless  in  her  mockery !  And  she  was  aware  of  a  throb 
of  exaltation  as  she  made  the  sacrifice  which  prevented  the 
declaration  that  was  hanging  on  his  lips.  In  making  a 
fool  of  him  again  she  was  saving  him  from  making  a  fool 
of  himself.  Markham  did  not  reply  and  only  stood  there 
gnawing  at  his  lips.  He  was  no  squire  of  dames  he  knew, 
and  what  she  said  of  him  touched  him  on  the  raw  of  his 
self-esteem.  Paleozoic  he  might  be,  but  it  stung  him  that 
she  should  tell  him  so. 

She  delivered  his  coup  de  grace  unerringly. 

"Take  my  advice  and  let  love-making  alone,  or  if  you 
must  make  love,  do  it  as  other  gods  do — by  messenger. 
Otherwise  your  Elysian  dignity  is  in  jeopardy.  You  are 

84 


OUT   OF   HIS   DEPTH 


not  the  kind  of  man  that  women  love,  mon  cher.  Come, 
it  is  time  that  we  joined  the  others." 

She  led  him  down  the  avenue  of  roses,  every  line  of  her 
graceful  figure  rebuking  his  insufficiency,  and  he  followed 
dumbly,  aware  of  it. 

Upon  the  terrace  occupied  by  couples  intent  upon 
private  matters,  she  promptly  deserted  him,  leaving  him 
without  a  word  to  his  own  devices.  He  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment of  uncertainty,  and  then  fumbling  in  his  pocket  for 
his  pipe,  which  was  not  there,  went  into  the  smoking-room 
in  search  of  a  cigarette. 

"Two  spades,"  declared  Archie  Westcott  at  the  auc- 
tion table,  and  then  when  Markham  went  out,  "Odd  fish — 
that." 

"Three  hearts,"  said  Mrs.  Renshaw.  "Why  Hermia 
asks  such  people  I  can't  imagine.  You're  never  certain 
whom  you're  asked  to  meet  nowadays.  Prig,  isn't  he?" 

"Oh,  rather!  Has  ideals,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
hasn't  he,  Hilda?" 

"If  his  ideals  are  as  rotten  as  his  manners  I  can't  say 
much  for  'em." 

"Olga  likes  him " 

"Oh,  Olga "  sniffed  Hilda.  "Anything  for  a  new 

sensation.  Remember  that  queer  little  French  marquis 
who  trailed  around  after  her  at  Monte  Carlo  ?" 

"Oh,  play  ball,"  growled  Gouverneur.  "Who  cares — 
so  long  as  he  keeps  out  of  here." 

Unaware  of  these  unflattering  comments,  Markham 
strolled  out  of  doors  and  into  a  lonely  armchair  on  the 
terrace,  and  smoked  in  solitary  dignity.  Indeed  solitude 
seemed  to  be  the  only  thing  left  to  him.  He  was  not  a 
man  who  made  friends  rapidly,  and  the  three  or  four  peo- 
ple whom  he  might  have  cared  to  cultivate  had  other  fish 

85 


MADCAP 

to  fry  to-night — and  were  not  frying  them  on  the  terrace. 
Olga,  it  seemed,  had  no  intention  of  returning  and  Hermia 
Challoner  was  doubtless  already  in  that  happy  phase  of 
experimentation  so  warmly  advocated  by  Reggie  Armis- 
tead. 

He  envied  those  two  young  people  their  carelessness, 
their  grace,  their  ruddy  delights  which  by  contrast  added 
conviction  to  Olga's  indictment  of  him.  He  tried  with 
some  difficulty  to  analyze  the  precise  nature  of  his  senti- 
ments toward  Olga  Tcherny,  and  found  at  the  end  of  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  to  his  surprise,  that  the  only  feeling  of 
which  he  was  conscious  was  one  of  dull  resentment  at  her 
for  having  made  a  fool  of  him. 

Whatever  Markham  the  painter  had  accomplished  in 
the  delineation  of  character  of  the  fashionable  women  he 
had  painted,  the  truth  was  that  Markham  both  feared  and 
misunderstood  them.  Their  changing  moods,  their  unac- 
countable likes  and  dislikes,  their  petty  ambitions  and 
vanities  he  accepted  as  part  of  the  heritage  of  a  race  of 
beings  apart  from  his  own,  and  he  hid  his  timidity  under  a 
brusque  manner  which  gave  him  credit  for  a  keener  pene- 
tration than  he  actually  possessed.  And,  strangely 
enough,  Fate,  with  sardonic  humor,  had  given  him  a  knack, 
which  so  few  painters  possess,  of  catching  on  canvas  the 
elusive  charm  of  his  feminine  sitters,  of  investing  with 
grace  those  characteristics  he  professed  so  much  to  de- 
spise. He  had  told  Hermia  Challoner  that  he  did  not 
paint  "pretty"  portraits,  but  as  Olga  knew,  it  was  upon 
his  delineation  of  beauty,  his  manipulation  of  dainty  dra- 
peries, the  sheen  of  silk  and  satin,  that  his  reputation  so 
securely  rested.  It  was  perhaps  merely  a  contemptuous 
cleverness  which  had  given  him  the  name  among  his  craft 
of  being  a  "master  brushman." 

86 


OUT  OF  HIS  DEPTH 


Into  Olga  Tcherny's  portrait  he  had  put  something 
more  of  his  sitter  than  usual.  He  had  painted  the  soul  of 
the  girl  in  the  body  of  the  woman  of  thirty,  and  if  he  ren- 
dered his  subject  in  a  manner  more  stilted  than  usual,  he 
repaid  her  in  the  real  interest  with  which  her  portrait  was 
invested.  He  liked  Olga.  He  had  accepted  her  warily  at 
first  until  he  had  proved  to  his  own  satisfaction  the  dis- 
interestedness of  her  regard  and  then  he  had  given  her  his 
friendship  without  reserve,  his  first  real  friendship  with  a 
woman  of  the  world,  conscious  of  the  charm  of  their  rela- 
tion from  which  all  sentiment  had  been  banished. 

He  had  awakened  rudely  to-night.  He  was  now  aware 
that  sentiment  on  Olga's  part  had  never  been  banished 
nor  could  ever  be  banished  with  a  woman  of  her  type.  He 
had  made  the  mistake  of  judging  her  by  the  records  of 
their  friendship,  unmindful  of  her  history  as  to  which  he 
had  been  forewarned. 

To-night  the  secret  was  out.  The  feminine  in  her  had 
been  triumphant.  He  was  a  different  kind  of  fish  from 
any  she  had  caught  and  for  reasons  of  her  own  she  wanted 
him.  She  had  been  playing  him  skillfully  for  months,  giv- 
ing him  all  the  line  in  her  reel  that  he  might  be  hooked  the 
more  easily.  And  to  what  end?  Their  friendship  had 
fallen  into  shreds.  What  was  to  follow? 

Of  one  thing  he  was  certain.  He  was  learning  some- 
thing, also  progressing.  In  the  twelve  hours  that  had 
passed  he  had  kissed  two  women — something  of  a  record 
for  a  man  of  his  prejudices.  He  rose  and  threw  the  un- 
satisfactory cigarette  into  the  bushes.  It  was  high  time 
he  was  making  his  way  back  to  Thimble  Island  and  soli- 
tude. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  silk  behind  him,  and  he  turned. 

87 


"Oh,  do  stay,  Mr.  Markham.  I  was  just  coming  out 
to  talk  to  you." 

He  greeted  Hermia  with  delight,  quickly  responding 
to  the  charm  of  her  juvenility. 

"I  was  wondering  if  I  would  see  you  again,"  he  said 
genuinely. 

"You  see,"  she  laughed,  "I  don't  always  pop  in  feet 
first."  She  sat  and  examined  him  curiously,  and  then, 
after  a  pause, 

"What  a  fraud  you  are,  Mr.  Markham !" 

"I?" 

"A  deep-dyed  hypocrite — I  can't  see  how  you  can  dare 
look  me  in  the  face " 

"But  I  can — and  I  find  it  very  pleasant." 

"Oh — shame!  To  take  advantage  of  my  childish 
credulity — my  trusting  innocence.  You  make  me  believe 
you  to  be  a  fossilized  pedant — a  philosopher  prematurely 
aged — willing  to  barter  your  hope  of  salvation  for  a 
draught  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth — and  I  find  you  making 
love  to  my  chaperon  and  most  distinguished  woman  guest ! 
And  I  was  actually  offering  to  teach  you!  Aren't  you  a 
little  ashamed  of  yourself?" 

"No,  I  think  not,"  he  said  slowly.  "You  know  Mad- 
ame Tcherny  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine." 

"So  she  is  of  mine.  She's  a  perfectly  adorable  chap- 
eron— but  then  there  are  limits  even  to  the  indiscretions 
of  a  chaperon." 

"Do  you  think  it  quite  fair  to  Olga "  he  began. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  smiled  at  him  mis- 
chievously. 

"Oh,  Olga  is  quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself. 
It  isn't  Olga  I'm  thinking  about  at  all.  It's  you,  my  poor 

88 


OUT   OF   HIS   DEPTH 


friend.  Did  you  know  that  Olga  has  the  reputation  of 
being  quite  the  most  dangerous  woman  in  Europe?" 

"All  women  are  dangerous.  Fortunately  I'm  not  the 
kind  of  man  such  women  find  interesting." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  know  just  what  kind  of  a  man 
you  are,  Mr.  Markham.  In  your  studio  I  inclined  to  the 
opinion  that  you  had  most  of  the  characteristics  of  an 
amiable  gorilla ;  on  Thimble  Island  you  seemed  like  Di- 
ogenes— without  the  tub;  to-night  you're  Lothario,  Blue- 
beard, and  Lancelot  all  in  one." 

"I'm  afraid  you  flatter  me.  First  impressions  are 
usually  correct,  I  think.  I'm  an  amiable  gorilla.  Per- 
haps by  the  time  you  visit  my  studio  again,  I  may  have 
reached  the  next  link  in  the  chain  to  the  human."  He 
laughed  and  then  quickly  turned  the  conversation  to  a 
topic  less  personal.  "You  will  visit  my  studio  next  winter, 
won't  you?" 

"Of  course.  You're  to  do  my  portrait,  you  know? 
But  I  was  hoping  that  you  might  stay  on  and  paint  it 
here  at  'Wake-Robin'!" 

He  looked  off  toward  Thimble  Island  a  moment  before 
replying. 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't.  I  have  some  engagements  in  New 
York  and  my  passage  is  booked  for  Europe  early  in  the 
month.  I  leave  Thimble  Island  almost  at  once." 

"Oh,  that's  unkind  of  you.  Don't  you  find  it  suffi- 
ciently attractive  here?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  Unfortunately,  I  can't  consult  my  own 
wishes  in  the  matter." 

She  had  been  examining  him  narrowly. 

"You  don't  want  to  stay,  Mr.  Markham,"  she  an- 
nounced, decisively. 

He  looked  her  in  the  eyes,  but  made  no  reply. 

89 


MADCAP 

"We're  not  your  sort,  I  know.  But  I  thought  that 
with  Olga  here " 

"It  has  been  very  pleasant.  I  am  glad  to  have  had 
the  privilege " 

"Don't,  Mr.  Markham.  The  truth  is,"  she  went  on, 
"that  you  came  here  because  you  thought  you  ought  to 
be  polite.  You  go  because  you  think  you  have  been  quite 
polite  enough.  Isn't  that  true?" 

"Figuratively,  yes,"  he  replied  frankly.  "I'm  not 
gregarious  by  instinct.  I  can't  help  it.  I  suppose  I'm 
just  unsociable,  that's  all." 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  rising.  "If  you  won't 
stay — shall  I  see  you  again?" 

"I  think  not.    I'm  leaving  early." 

"Oh,"  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot.  "I  have  no  patience 
with  you!" 

"You  see,"  he  shrugged,  "I  don't  wear  well." 

They  reached  the  hall  and  she  gave  him  her  fingers. 

"I  wish  you  all  the  happiness  in  the  world,"  he  said 
quietly. 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly. 

"I'm  always  happy.     You  mean " 

"Your  engagement  to  Mr.  Armistead." 

Her  lips  curved  demurely. 

"Oh,  of  course — Reggie  and  I  will  get  along — we'll 
manage  somehow — but  a  month  is  a  long  while " 

"But  life  is  a  longer  while " 

"Yes— it  is— too  long " 

There  was  a  note  in  her  voice  he  had  not  heard  before. 
He  glanced  at  her  inquisitively,  but  she  went  up  the  steps, 
one  hand  extended  over  the  baluster  to  his,  laughing  mis- 
chievously. 

90 


OUT   OF   HIS   DEPTH 


"Good  night,  Mr.  Markham.  Thanks  for  the  break- 
fast— and  the  philosophy.  But  please  remember  that 
people  who  love  in  glass  houses — shouldn't  cast  asper- 
sions." 


LIKE  the  skillful  general  who  covers  his  retreat  by 
an  unexpected  show  of  strength,  Olga  Tcherny 
had  retired  in  good  order,  with  colors  flying.   She 
had  struck  hard,  spent  some  ammunition  and  endangered 
her  line  of  communications,  but  she  had  reached  the  cover 
of  the  tall  timbers,  where  for  the  moment  it  was  safe  to 
go  into  camp,  repair  damages  and  take  account  of  in- 
juries. 

At  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance  her  interest  in 
Markham  had  not  been  unlike  that  of  the  motherly  hen  in 
the  doings  of  the  newly  hatched  duckling  with  which  she 
differed  as  to  the  practical  utility  of  duckponds.  She 
had  been  intensely  interested  in  his  work  and  in  his  career 
which  during  the  winter  in  Paris  had  been  definitely 
shaped  as  a  painter  of  successful  portraits.  She  had 
liked  the  man  from  the  first,  liked  him  well  enough  to  be 
as  genuine  as  he  was,  and  found  delight  in  a  companion- 
ship which  led  her  down  pleasant  lanes  of  thought — 
which  terminated,  as  they  had  begun,  in  quiet  satisfaction. 
He  neither  lied  to  her  nor  flattered  her;  his  speech  had 
the  simple  directness  of  a  child's,  and  while  she  frequently 
reproved  him  for  his  rusticity,  in  secret  she  adored  it. 
She  had  been  used  all  her  life  to  the  polish  of  Europe,  sa- 
tiated with  its  compliments,  glutted  with  its  hypocrisy, 
courted  by  men  with  manner  and  no  manners,  whom  she 
had  met  with  their  own  weapons.  She  had  never  known  a 

92 


THE   FUGITIVE 


real  friendship  in  man — or  woman — had  not  even  sought 
friendship,  because  life  had  taught  her  that,  for  her,  such 
things  did  not  exist.  In  Markham  she  had  found  the  myth 
without  searching,  and  once  found  she  had  grappled  it  to 
her  soul  with  hoops  of  steel.  His  friendship  it  was  that 
she  had  loved — not  Markham.  He  was  her  own  discovery, 
her  very  own,  and  she  followed  her  first  sober  impulse, 
calmly,  giving  him  the  best  of  her,  scorning  the  arts  which 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  employ  on  other  men  with  so 
much  success. 

A  born  coquette  is  much  like  the  hunter  who  hunts 
for  the  love  of  hunting  and  has  no  appetite  for  game 
upon  his  own  table.  Olga  Tcherny  had  hunted  in  all  the 
covers  of  sportive  Europe  with  an  appetite  which  always 
ended  with  the  chase.  Markham  had  not  been  marked  as 
game.  He  was  simply  a  delicious  accident  and  she  had 
accepted  him  as  such,  grateful  for  the  new  appetite  which 
was  as  healthy  as  it  was  unusual. 

But  it  was  very  natural  that  his  indifference  should 
pique  her  vanity.  Markham  did  not  care  for  women. 
That  was  all  the  more  a  reason  why  he  should  learn  to 
care  for  her.  The  love  of  being  loved  was  habit,  in- 
grained, and  she  could  not  dismiss  it  with  a  word.  But 
she  gave  him  her  friendship,  and  having  given  it  would 
not  recant  from  her  secret  vow  to  be  honest  with  it  and 
with  him. 

There  had  been  moments  of  uncertainty,  moments  of 
ennui,  but  never  of  danger — until  to-night,  when  she  had 
fallen  from  grace  and  yielded  to  an  impulse,  once  ignoble, 
but  now  ignoble  no  longer,  to  bring  Markham  at  all  haz- 
ards to  her  feet.  It  was  no  longer  their  friendship  that 
she  loved,  but  Markham.  She  loved  fervently  as  coquettes 
will  at  last,  placing  in  one  ship  the  cargo  that  had  fared 

93 


MADCAP 

forth  in  so  many  vessels.  It  was  the  coquette  in  her  that 
had  mocked  and  tantalized  him,  the  coquette  even  whom 
he  had  kissed — but  it  was  the  woman  who  had  struck  and 
now  suffered  the  pains  of  her  imprudence. 

Olga  dismissed  the  unfortunate  Georgette  when  she 
came  to  brush  her  hair  and  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  both 
hands  supporting  her  chin,  staring  at  vacancy.  He  had 
guessed  the  truth — the  agony  of  it !  She  had  wept — real 
tears,  the  tears  of  subjection.  She  had  begun — a  coquette, 
trusting  to  her  skill  in  dissimulation,  but  her  heart  had 
betrayed  her.  She  had  wept  and  Markham  had  seen  her 
tears.  Even  a  less  sophisticated  man  than  he  would  have 
known  that  women  of  her  type  only  weep  when  they  are 
stirred  to  the  lees.  Had  she  deceived  him  in  the  end? 
The  doubt  still  assailed  her.  She  had  cut  him  deeply,  hurt 
his  amour  propre  and  left  him  scowling  in  Arcadian  re- 
sentment. Would  the  lesson  last?  Or  must  she  seek 
further  means  to  convince  him  of  her  indifference?  Why 
had  she  provoked  him?  A  whim — the  dormant  devil  in 
her — to  whom  her  better  self  must  now  pay  in  the  loss  of 
his  friendship. 

The  old  relation  between  them  was  dead.  She  had 
nailed  it  in  its  coffin.  He  did  not  love  her,  but  she  knew, 
that  had  she  wished,  she  could  have  made  him  think  he  was, 
coaxed  lies  from  his  lips  which  both  of  them  would  have 
lived  to  regret. 

The  future?  Had  she  one?  Happiness?  It  must 
come  soon.  She  had  reached  the  beginning  of  wrinkles 
and  cheekbones  and  her  wrists  were  squarer  than  they  used 
to  be.  Thirty! — a  year  older  than  Markham!  Roses 
grown  in  hothouses  are  quick  to  fade.  Would  she  fade, 
too,  quickly? 

She  went  to  the  dressing-table  and  examined  her  face 

94 


THE   FUGITIVE 


in  a  hand-mirror  with  assiduous  care.  Yes,  crow's  feet 
— three  of  them  at  each  eye,  and  two  tiny  wrinkles  leading 
into  her  dimples.  She  was  positively  haggard  to-night. 
It  did  not  do  for  the  woman  of  thirty  to  cry.  Her  hair — 
another  gray  one — she  plucked  it  out  viciously.  She 
would  not  grow  old.  Age  was  a  disease  which  could  be 
prevented  by  the  use  of  proper  precautions.  She  must 
stop  playing  cards  so  late,  get  up  earlier,  take  long  walks 
in  the  air,  play  tennis  as  Hermia  did 

She  put  the  mirror  down  and  lay  back  in  her  chair, 
her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  wall  beside  her  which  bore  a  photo- 
graph of  her  young  hostess  astride  her  favorite  hunter. 
Hermia's  youth  and  her  own  knowledge  of  the  world — 
what  would  she  not  give  for  that  indomitable  combina- 
tion !  She  was  glad  in  a  way  that  Markham  had  decided 
to  postpone  the  painting  of  Hermia's  portrait.  She 
wasn't  quite  certain  about  Hermia..  It  was  never  wise  to 
be  certain  about  any  girl — especially  if  that  girl  was 
seven  years  younger  than  you  were  and  quite  as  pretty. 
And  what  on  earth  did  Hermia  mean  by  scrubbing  John 
Markham's  floor?  In  her  present  mood  it  seemed  a  sym- 
bol— was  it  prophetic?  Markham  was  candid  in  his  likes 
and  dislikes  and  he  made  no  bones  now  of  the  pleasure  in 
Hermia's  society.  Hermia  was  a  surprising  person.  Her 
love  of  mischief  was  increasing  with  her  years,  her  ca- 
pacity for  making  it  only  limited  by  the  end  of  oppor- 
tunity. 

She  was  not  surprised  when  she  came  downstairs 
rather  late  the  next  morning  to  learn  that  Markham  had 
returned  to  the  island.  This  meant  that  he  was  still 
angry — which  was  healthful.  She  needed  a  little  time  for 
reconstruction,  too,  and  Markham's  anger  was  a  more 

95 


MADCAP 

pleasant  thought  for  contemplation  than  his  repentance, 
apology  or  sentiment,  all  of  which  he  would  have  offered 
as  sops  to  her  pride,  and  none  of  which  could  have  been 
genuine.  His  departure  without  seeing  her  meant  that  he 
had  believed  her  spoken  word  rather  than  that  which  had 
been  written  in  silence,  the  testimony  of  her  drooping  fig- 
ure and  her  unlucky  tears. 

A  walk  refreshed  her.  By  the  time  she  returned  to 
"Wake-Robin"  all  doubts  had  been  cleared  from  her  mind. 
She  would  wait.  He  would  come  to  her.  Time  would 
mend  his  wounds. 

On  the  way  to  the  house  she  passed  the  hangar  where 
her  hostess,  Reggie  Armistead  and  Salignac  were  tinkering 
with  the  machines.  She  stopped  and  watched  them  for  a 
moment,  when  Hermia  joined  her  and  they  walked  toward 
the  house  together. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Olga "  Hermia  paused. 

"About  what?" 

"Last  night.  How  should  /  have  known  that  the  per- 
gola was  occupied !" 

"Oh,  it  didn't  matter  in  the  least,"  she  said  coolly. 
"Markham  was  making  love  to  me,  that's  all.  Pity — isn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Hermia  slowly,  "a  great  pity — 
you're  no  respecter  of  persons,  Olga." 

Olga  shrugged  effectively. 

"How  should  7  have  known?" 

"You  have  had  time  enough  to  study  him,  I  should  say. 
Why  couldn't  you  let  him  be?  When  there  are  so  many 
other  men " 

"Hear  the  child !  One  might  think  that  I  had  brought 
him  to  my  knees,  malice  propense.  I  didn't.  Mon  Dieu, 
one  can't  always  prevent  the  unexpected." 

96 


Hermia  laughed  dryly.  "One  doesn't  plan  the  unex- 
pected quite  so  carefully  as  you  do,  Olga,  dear." 

It  was  beneath  Olga's  dignity  to  reply. 

"At  any  rate,"  continued  Hermia,  "you've  driven  him 
away  from  'Wake-Robin'." 

"Oh,  he'll  come  back,"  said  Olga  lightly. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Of  course." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  the  girl. 

At  the  end  of  three  days  the  Countess  Olga  realized 
that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  made  a  mistake 
in  judgment ;  for  Mr.  Markham  did  not  return  to  "Wake- 
Robin."  And  when  she  went  to  the  island  in  the  launch  to 
make  her  peace  with  him  she  found  the  cabin  deserted. 

It  was  not  until  some  days  later  that  she  received  a 
letter  from  him  dated  in  New  York,  and  sent  on  the  eve 
of  his  sailing  for  Europe. 

MY  DEAR  OLGA: 

It  is  to  laugh !  But  you  can  be  sure  that  I  was  angry  for 
a  day  or  two.  What  is  the  use?  I  have  forgotten  my  mis- 
adventure and  will  consider  it  a  warning  against  rosegardens. 
I'll  not  venture  into  a  rose  garden  by  moonlight  again  unless 
quite  alone.  It's  dangerous — even  with  a  sworn  friend.  It 
wasn't  altogether  your  fault  or  mine,  and  you  served  me  quite 
properly  in  cutting  my  self-esteem  to  ribbons.  But  it  hurt, 
Olga.  You  know  the  least  of  us  mortals  thinks  he's  a  heart- 
breaker,  if  he  tries  to  be.  You've  put  me  back  upon  my  shelf 
among  the  cobwebs  and  there  I  shall  remain.  I'm  hopeless 
material  to  work  with  socially  and  deserve  no  better  fate  than 
to  be  laid  away  and  forgotten.  People  must  take  me  as  I  am 
or  not  at  all.  I  don't  mind  rubbing  elbows  with  the  great 
unwashed.  They're  human  somehow.  But  your  world  of  dis- 
satisfied women  and  unsatisfied  men!  It  gets  on  my  nerves, 
and  so  I've  cut  it  and  run. 

97 


MADCAP 

I'm  painting  an  antiquated  countess  in  Havre,  and  then 
I'm  off  for  the  open  country  with  a  thumb  box,  a  toothbrush 
and  a  smile,  and  with  this  equipment  I  have  all  that  the  world 
can  offer.  I  shall  live  upon  the  fat  of  the  land  at  forty  sous 
a  day — ripaille — under  the  trees — a  sound  red  wine  to  wash 
the  dust  from  one's  throat — and  an  appetite  and  a  thirst  such 
as  Westport  will  never  know. 

An  revoir,  chere  Olga.  I  could  wish  you  with  me,  but  I 
shall  be  many  honest  kilometers  from  a  limousine,  which  is 
not  your  idea  of  a  state  of  being. 

With  affectionate  regards,  Faithfully, 

J.  M. 

In  the  same  mail  was  a  note  to  Hermia : 

MY  DEAR  Miss  CHALLONER: 

Your  kindness  deserves  a  better  return  than  my  abrupt 
and  rather  churlish  departure  from  "Wake  Robin,"  and,  if  it 
isn't  already  too  late  to  restore  myself  to  your  graces,  I  hope 
you  will  accept  my  regrets  and  apologies,  and  the  sketch  from 
Thimble  Island,  which  goes  to  you  by  express.  I  hope  you 
will  like  it.  I  do.  That's  why  I'm  giving  it  to  you.  But  it's 
hardly  complete  without  the  wrecked  monoplane  and  the  small 
person  who  came  with  it.  Perhaps  some  day  you'll  "drop 
in"  on  me  again  somewhere  and  I  can  finish  it.  Meanwhile 
please  think  seriously  about  the  portrait.  I  don't  believe  I'm 
just  the  man  to  do  it.  I  can't  seem  to  see  you  somehow.  My 
business  is  to  portray  the  social  anachronism.  That  is  easy — 
a  matter  of  clothes.  But  how  shall  a  mere  mortal  define  in 
terms  of  paint  the  dwellers  of  the  air?  You  have  me  guess- 
ing, dear  lady.  Imagine  Ariel  in  the  conventional  broadcloth 
of  commerce.  It's  preposterous.  I  can't  lend  myself  to  any 
such  deception. 

The  rest  of  the  letter  was  more  formal  and  finished 
with  a  message  of  congratulation  to  Mr.  Armistead  and  a 

98 


THE   FUGITIVE 


word  of  thanks  for  her  own  hospitality.    And  he  hoped  to 
remain  very  cordially  "John  Markham." 

Hermia  smiled  as  she  finished  it  and  then  read  it  over 
again.  The  letter  with  its  mixture  of  the  formal  and 
whimsical  both  pleased  and  reassured  her.  It  represented 
more  the  Markham  of  Thimble  Island,  a  person  whose 
identity  had  lost  something  of  its  definiteness  since  her 
talks  with  Olga  in  the  days  that  had  followed  his  depar- 
ture from  "Wake-Robin."  She  had  been  aware  of  a  sense 
of  doubt  and  disappointment  in  him  and  she  had  not  been 
quite  so  sure  that  she  liked  him  now.  Of  course,  if  he 
chose  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  over  Olga  it  was  none  of 
her  affair,  and  she  had  been  obliged  to  admit  that  her 
discovery  had  taken  from  him  some  of  the  charm  of  origi- 
nality. She  did  not  know  what  had  passed  between  her 
guests  before  her  abrupt  descent  through  the  pergola,  but 
she  was  quite  certain  she  had  fallen  into  the  middle  of  a 
psychological  moment.  Whose  moment  was  it,  Olga's  or 
his?  She  couldn't  help  wondering.  Olga  had  intimated 
that  Markham  was  in  love  with  her.  Hermia  now  doubted. 
Indeed  a  suspicion  was  growing  in  her  mind  that  it  was 
Olga  who  was  in  love  with  Markham.  Hermia  smiled  and 
put  the  letter  away  in  her  desk.  It  didn't  matter  to  her, 
of  course,  only  interested  her  a  great  deal,  but  she 
couldn't  help  wondering  why,  if  Markham  was  so  deeply 
under  the  spell  of  Olga's  worldliness,  he  had  not  come 
back  to  her  when  she  had  wanted  him. 

A  northeaster  had  set  in  along  the  coast,  and  the 
guests  of  "Wake  Robin"  were  driven  indoors.  Olga,  when 
she  wasn't  playing  auction,  wandered  from  window  to 
window,  looking  out  at  the  dreary  skies,  venting  her  en- 
nui on  anyone  within  earshot.  Archie  Westcott,  who  was 
losing  more  money  than  he  could  afford  to  lose,  now 

99 


MADCAP 


lacked  the  buoyant  spirits  which  carried  him  so  blithely 
along  the  crest  of  the  social  wave  and  scowled  gloomily 
at  his  cards  which  persisted  in  favoring  his  opponents. 
Crosby  Downs,  whose  waistband  had  again  reached  its 
fullest  tension,  sought  the  tall  grasses  of  the  smoking- 
room  and  refused  to  be  dislodged.  Without  the  shadows 
of  her  hat  and  veil  Mrs.  Renshaw  showed  her  age  to  a  day, 
and  that  ,didn't  improve  her  temper.  Beatrice  Codding- 
ton  had  an  attack  of  the  megrims  and  remained  in  her 
room. 

Hermia  played  bottle  pool  and  pinochle  with  Reggie 
Armistead  until  they  began  discussing  the  exact  terms  of 
Hermia's  promise  when  there  began  a  quarrel  which 
lasted  the  entire  afternoon  and  ended  in  Reggie's  going 
out  into  the  pouring  rain  and  swearing  that  he  would 
never  come  back.  But  he  did  come  back  just  in  time  for 
dinner,  through  which  he  sat  pretending  that  he  was  in- 
terested in  Phyllis  Van  Vorst  and  casting  gloomy  looks 
in  the  direction  of  the  oblivious  Hermia.  At  the  end. of 
three  days  there  were  no  more  than  two  people  in  the 
house  on  terms  of  civility,  and  most  of  Hermia's  guests 
had  departed. 

Olga  Tcherny,  after  an  afternoon  alone  in  her  room, 
came  downstairs  at  the  last  extremity  of  fatigue. 

"I  can't  stand  it  another  hour,  Hermia.  I  am  off  in 
the  morning." 

"Off?    Where?"  asked  Hermia. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Anywhere.  New  York  first  and 
then " 

"Normandy?"  queried  Hermia  impertinently. 

Olga  only  smiled. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE   GATES   OF   CHANCE 

MARKHAM  had  finished  the  portrait  of  his  anti- 
quated countess  in  Havre  and  abandoning  the 
luxuries  of  the  Hotel  Frascati  had  taken  to  the 
road  with  his  knapsack  and  painting  kit  for  a  two  months' 
jaunt  along  unfrequented  Norman  byways.  This  had 
been  his  custom  since  his  first  year  in  Paris,  when  his 
means  were  small  and  the  wanderlust  drove  him  forth 
from  the  streets  of  Paris.  He  had  walked  from  the  Sa- 
voie  to  Brittany,  from  Belgium  to  Provence  and  the 
vagabond  instinct  in  him  had  grown  no  less  with  advanc- 
ing years.  He  liked  the  long  days  in  the  open.  The 
slowly  moving  panorama  of  hill  and  dell,  which  was  lost 
upon  the  touring  motorists  who  continually  passed  him, 
filling  the  air  with  their  evil  smells  and  clouds  of  dust. 
He  liked  the  odor  of  the  loam  in  the  early  morning,  the 
clean  air  washed  by  the  dew  and  redolent  of  burning  wood, 
the  drowsy  hour  of  noon  with  its  meal  of  cheese  and  bread 
eaten  at  the  shady  brink  of  some  musical  stream  and  the 
day-dream  or  doze  that  followed  it;  the  long  mellow  aft- 
ernoons under  the  blue  arch  of  sky  where  the  pink  clouds 
moved  as  lazily  as  he,  in  vagabond  procession,  across  the 
zenith.  His  aimlessness  and  theirs  made  them  brothers 
of  the  air,  and  he  followed  them  under  the  trackless  sky, 
aware  that  his  destination  for  the  night  lay  somewhere 
ahead  of  him,  leaving  the  rest  to  chance  and  the  patron 
saint  of  Nomads.  He  liked  the  rugged  faces  he  saw  on 

101 


MADCAP 

the  road,  the  Norman  welcome  of  his  host  and  the  deep 
sleep  of  utter  weariness  and  content  which  defied  the 
tooth  of  time  and  discomfort. 

After  a  few  days  in  Rouen,  where  he  always  lingered 
longer  than  he  intended  to,  he  had  crossed  the  river  at 
Sotteville  and  had  followed  main  roads  which  led  him  to 
the  south  and  east  through  the  heart  of  the  historic 
Eure. 

He  had  given  Trouville  a  wide  berth ;  for  he  knew  some 
people  there,  friends  of  Olga  Tcherny's,  people  of  fashion 
who  would  have  looked  askance  at  his  dusty  clothes  and 
general  air  of  disrepute.  He  was  not  in  the  humor  for 
Olga's  kind  of  friends  cr  indeed  for  Olga,  if  as  the  last 
note  from  her  had  indicated  she,  too,  had  arrived  on  this 
side  of  the  water.  He  was  sufficient  unto  himself  and 
gloried  in  his  selfishness.  Song  he  would  have  and  did 
often  have  at  night  with  his  chance  companions  of  the 
road,  and  wine  or  the  sound  Norman  cider  which  was 
better — but  no  women — no  women  for  him ! 

It  was  on  the  road  beyond  Evreux  that  he  thus  con- 
gratulated himself  for  the  twentieth  time.  His  path 
passed  near  the  brink  of  a  river  fringed  with  trees  and  to 
the  right  the  hills  mounted  abruptly  to  a  rocky  eminence, 
crowned  with  an  ancient  castle  which  stolidly  sat  as  it 
had  done  for  a  thousand  years  and  guarded  the  peaceful 
valley  beneath.  It  had  looked  down  upon  the  pageantry 
of  an  earlier  day  when  knights  in  armor  had  ridden  forth 
of  its  portals  for  the  honor  of  their  ladies,  had  listened 
to  the  hoof-beats  of  more  than  one  army,  and  had  heard 
in  the  distance  the  clash  of  Ivry.  To-day  a  railroad 
wound  around  the  base  of  its  pedestal,  reminding  it  of 
the  new  order  of  things  and  of  its  own  antiquity. 

As  Markham  approached  the  railroad  crossing,  from 
102 


THE   GATES   OF   CHANCE 

the  opposite  direction,  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  came  an  auto- 
mobile. But  as  it  neared  the  track  a  woman  waving  a  red 
flag  and  blowing  a  horn  came  running  from  a  small  house 
by  the  roadside  and  pulled  the  gates  across  the  road. 
The  automobile,  which  had  only  one  occupant,  came  to 
a  sudden  stop  and  an  argument  followed.  Markham  was 
too  far  away  to  hear  what  was  said,  but  the  gestures  of 
the  disputants  could  be  easily  understood.  There  was  no 
train  in  sight  and  plenty  of  time  to  cross,  said  the  mo- 
torist. The  peasant  waved  her  flag  and  pointed  down  the 
track.  More  words,  more  gesticulations,  but  the  gate- 
keeper was  obdurate.  The  motorist  looked  up  the  track 
and  at  the  gate  and  road,  and  then  followed  explosives, 
smoke  and  dust  from  the  impatient  machine,  which  slowly 
moved  backward  a  short  distance  up  the  road  again. 
Markham,  slowly  approaching,  watched  the  comedy  with 
interest.  An  impatient  Parisian,  jealous  of  the  passing 
minutes,  and  an  obstinate  peasant — to  whom  passing  min- 
utes had  no  significance — could  any  two  humans  be  more 
definitely  antagonistic? 

What  was  the  person  in  the  car  about?  More  explo- 
sions and  the  blue  of  burning  oil  as  the  car  came  forward, 
its  cutout  open,  turning  to  the  left  off  the  road  over  a 
ditch  and  into  a  field.  The  gate-keeper  ran  forward  shak- 
ing her  flag  and  screaming  as  she  guessed  the  motorist's 
intention.  But  it  was  too  late.  The  car  was  hidden  for 
a  moment  from  Markham's  view  in  the  declivity  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  railroad  embankment,  the  exhaust  roar- 
ing furiously,  and  leaped  into  sight,  the  front  wheels  high 
in  the  air  as  it  took  the  near  rail  and  then  fell  heavily 
with  a  complaining  groan  across  the  track  and  moved  no 
more,  its  rear  axle  snapped  in  two. 

Of  all  the  fool  performances !  Markham  ran  forward 
103 


MADCAP 

crying  in  French  to  the  chauffeur  to  jump,  for  around  the 
profile  of  the  hill  the  locomotive  of  the  oncoming  train 
was  emerging.  The  motorist  looked  at  Markham  and 
then  at  the  advancing  train  in  bewilderment ;  then  j  umped 
clear  of  the  track  beside  Markham  as  the  freight  train, 
its  brakes  creaking,  its  steam  shrieking,  crashed  into  the 
unfortunate  machine,  turning  it  over  and  then  crumpling 
it  into  a  shapeless  mass,  through  which  it  tore,  its  im- 
petus carrying  it  well  down  the  road  and  scattering  the 
torn  fragments  of  nickel  and  steel  on  both  sides  of  the 
tracks. 

It  was  not  until  the  train  had  been  brought  to  a  stop 
that  Markham  had  had  time  to  notice  that  the  motorist 
was  a  woman — not  until  she  turned  a  rather  wan  face  in 
his  direction  that  he  saw  that  the  victim  of  this  misfor- 
tune was  Hermia  Challoner. 

"You,  child!"  he  gasped.     "What  in  the  name  of  all 

that's  impossible " 

"John  Markham!" 

"Good  Lord,  but  you  had  a  close  call  for  it !    Couldn't 

you  have  waited  a  moment " 

"It  was  a  new  machine,"  she  stammered.  'I  was  try- 
ing for  a  record  to  Trouville  from  Paris — 

"It  was  a  d n  fool  thing  to  do,"  he  blurted  forth 

angrily.    "You  might  have  been  killed." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  lips  compressed,  but  made  no 
reply. 

The  gate-woman,  who  for  a  few  moments  had  stood 
as  though  petrified  with  fright,  now  resumed  her  screams 
and  gesticulations  as  the  crew  of  the  train  descended.  In 
a  few  moments  they  surrounded  Hermia,  all  shouting  at 
once,  and  waving  their  arms  under  Hermia's  nose.  She 
attempted  replies,  but  the  noise  was  deafening  and  no 

104 


THE   GATES   OF   CHANCE 

one  listened  to  her.  Peasants  working  in  the  fields  nearby 
who  had  heard  the  crash  came  running  and  added  their 
numbers  and  temperaments  to  the  Babel.  The  gate- 
keeper thrust  herself  violently  into  the  midst  of  the  group 
pointing  at  the  wreck  of  the  machine  and  at  Hermia,  her 
remarks  as  unintelligible  to  the  train  crew  as  they  were 
to  Markham. 

Hermia  stood  her  ground,  but  when  one  of  the  train 
crew  seized  her  by  the  arm  and  thrust  his  grimy  face 
close  to  her  own  she  grew  pale  and  drew  back.  Markham 
stepped  between  and  gave  the  fellow  a  shove  which  sent 
him  sprawling.  There  was  a  pause  and  for  a  moment  mat- 
ters looked  difficult.  But  Markham  mounted  the  embank- 
ment, drew  Hermia  up  beside  him,  put  his  back  against  a 
car,  held  up  his  hand  and  in  French  demanded  silence. 
His  voice  rang  true  and  they  listened.  He  had  seen  the 
accident  from  the  road  and  would  bear  witness.  It  was 
not  the  fault  of  the  gate-keeper  or  of  the  lady  who  drove 
the  car.  It  was  simply  an  accident  in  which  lives  had 
fortunately  been  spared.  The  axle  of  the  machine  had 
broken  upon  the  track.  If  there  was  any  claim  for  dam- 
ages he  would  testify  that  the  engineer  was  not  to  blame. 

A  man  in  a  peasant's  smock  from  a  neighboring  field, 
who,  it  appeared,  held  some  local  office  of  authority,  now 
took  a  hand  in  the  investigation  and,  after  a  number  of 
questions  of  Hermia  and  the  gate-keeper,  sent  the  train 
upon  its  way. 

Amid  the  turmoil  of  the  gate-keeper's  voice  who  was 
recounting  the  affair  to  the  latest  arrivals  Hermia 
watched  the  train  as  it  passed  between  the  fragments  of 
what  a  few  minutes  before  had  been  a  new  French  machine. 
Some  of  the  peasants  had  already  gathered  around  the 

105 


MADCAP ^^ 

wreck  and  one  of  them  restored  her  leather  bag,  which  had 
been  tossed  some  distance  into  the  ditch.  To  all  appear- 
ances this  was  the  only  salvage  and  she  took  it  gratefully. 
A  walk  down  the  track  convinced  Markham  that  what  was 
left  of  the  car  was  only  fit  for  the  scrap-heap.  And  as 
the  crowd  still  surrounded  Hermia  he  put  his  arm  in  hers 
and  led  her  away.  She  followed  him  silently  up  the  road 
by  which  she  had  come  until  they  had  left  the  gaping 
crowd  behind  them.  Then  he  made  her  sit  on  a  bank  by 
the  roadside  and  unslinging  his  knapsack  dropped  beside 
her. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  down  the  road  toward  the  scene  of  her  mis- 
fortune, the  smile,  half  plaintive,  half  whimsical,  that  had 
been  hovering  on  her  lips  suddenly  breaking. 

"If  you  scold  me  I  shall  cry." 

"I'm  not  going  to  scold,"  he  said  kindly.  "That 
wouldn't  help  matters." 

"It  was  such  a  beautiful  piece  of  mechanism — so  hu- 
man— so  intelligent "  a  tear  trembled  on  her  lashes 

and  fell — "and  I've  only  had  it  two  days." 

She  was  the  child  with  a  broken  toy.  It  was  the  child 
he  wanted  to  comfort. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  genuinely.  "I  wish  I  could  put  it 
together  for  you  again." 

"It's  gone — irretrievably.  There's  nothing  to  be  done, 
of  course."  And  then,  "Oh !  it  seems  so  cruel !  The  thing 
cried  out  like  a  wounded  animal.  You  heard  it,  didn't 
you?  And  it  was  all  my  fault.  That's  what  hurts  me 
so." 

"One  gets  over  being  hurt,  but  one  doesn't  get  over 
being  dead.  You  only  missed  being  killed  by  the  part  of 
.a  second." 

106 


THE   GATES   OF   CHANCE 

She  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  with  the  back  of 
her  hand. 

"Oh,  I  know.  And  I'm  awfully  grateful.  I  really  am. 
I  don't  know  why  I  didn't  jump  sooner.  I  saw  the  train, 
too.  I  simply  couldn't  move.  I  seemed  to  be  glued  there 
— until  you  shouted.  It  was  lucky  you  were  there." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  a  moment  and  when 
she  straightened  was  quite  calm  again. 

"It's  all  over  now,  Mr.  Markham,  and  I'm  awfully 
obliged,"  she  said  with  a  laugh.  "You  seem  fated  to  be 
the  recording  angel  of  my  maddest  ventures." 

"It  was  madness,"  he  insisted. 

"I  know  it,"  she  sighed.  "And  yet  I'm  quite  sure  I 
would  do  it  again." 

"I  don't  doubt  that  in  the  least,"  he  replied  gravely, 
concealing  a  smile  as  one  would  have  done  from  a  mis- 
chievous child. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"The  world  is  very  small,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Markham?"  she 
asked.  "What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I?  Oh,  vagabonding.  It's  a  habit  I  have,  I'm  doing 
Normandy." 

She  examined  him  from  top  to  toe  and  then  said 
amusedly : 

"Did  you  know  that  for  the  past  week  Olga  has  been 
searching  Havre  high  and  low  for  you  ?" 

"No.    I  didn't  know  it.    Where  is  she  now?" 

"At  Trouville.  And  I  was  to  have  dined  with  her  to- 
night." 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  hardly  get  there,"  he  said,  looking 
at  his  watch.  "This  line  doesn't  connect." 

"Doesn't  it?  Oh,  some  line  will,  I  suppose."  And  then 
irrelevantly,  "Do  you  know,  Mr.  Markham,  I've  often 

107 


MADCAP          

wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  be  a  vagabond  ?  I  think 
I  really  am  one  deep  down  in  my  heart." 

"Vagabonds  are  born — not  made,  Miss  Challoner. 
They  belong  to  the  immortal  Fellowship  of  the  Open  Air, 
an  association  which  dates  from  Esau — an  exclusive  com- 
pany, I  can  tell  you,  which  black-balled  brother  Jacob, 
and  made  Fra^ois  Villon  its  laureate.  It  is  the  only  club 
in  the  world  where  the  possession  of  money  is  looked  on 
with  suspicion.  Imagine  a  vagabond  in  a  six  thousand- 
dollar  motor  car !" 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  threw  out  her  hands  with 
a  hopeless  gesture. 

"But  I'm  not  responsible  for  the  money.  /  didn't 
make  it.  I  don't  see  why  I  haven't  just  as  much  right  to 
be  a  vagabond  as  you  have." 

He  examined  her  amusedly. 

"You  would  have  the  right  perhaps  if  it  wasn't  for 
your  unfortunate  millions.  It's  too  bad.  I'm  really  very 
sorry  for  you." 

His  irony  passed  beyond  her. 

"I  am  a  vagabond,"  she  insisted.  "I  haven't  a  single 
conventional  instinct.  I've  never  had.  I  hate  convention. 
It  fetters  and  stifles  me.  My  money !  If  you  only  knew 
how  I  loathe  the  responsibilities,  the  endless  formalities, 
the  people  who  prey  upon  me  and  those  who  would  like  to, 
the  toadying  of  the  older  people,  the  hypocrisy  of  the 
younger  ones.  It  isn't  me  that  they  care  for.  I  have  no 
friends.  No  one  as  rich  as  I  am  can  have  friends.  I  dis- 
trust everyone.  Sometimes  I've  thought  of  going  away 
from  it  all — disappearing  and  never  coming  back  again. 
I'm  so  tired  of  having  everything  I  want.  I  want  to  want 
something  I  can't  get.  I  am  weary  of  everything  that 
life  can  offer  me.  I  have  to  choose  unhealthy  excitements 

108 


THE   GATES   OF   CHANCE 

to  keep  my  soul  alive.  Speed — danger — they're  the  only 
things  that  seem  to  make  life  worth  while." 

He  shook  his  head  as  she  paused  for  breath. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  think  I'm  mad.  I  seem  so  by  con- 
trast to  your  content.  You  seem  so  happy,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham." 

"I  am,"  he  said.    "All  vagabonds  are  happy." 

She  looked  at  him  enviously  as  though  she  might  by 
chance  discover  his  secret  of  life,  but  he  lit  his  pipe  and 
puffed  at  it  silently. 

"What  is  your  secret  of  happiness,  Mr.  Markham?" 
she  asked  wistfully.  "Tell  me,  won't  you?" 

"  'An  open  hand,  an  easy  shoe  and  a  hope  to  make 
the  day  go  through,'  "  he  quoted  with  a  quick  laugh. 

"What  else?" 

"Thirst — and  a  good  inn  to  quench  it  at." 

"Yes " 

"A  conscience,"  he  finished,  "with  little  on  it — a  purse 
with  little  in  it.  You  see  the  Ancient  Order  of  Vagabonds 
never  used  purses — unless  they  were  other  people's." 

He  stopped  with  a  laugh  and  glanced  down  the  road 
toward  the  scene  of  Hermia's  accident.  "All  of  which  is 
interesting,"  he  said  with  a  practical  air,  "but  doesn't 
exactly  solve  the  problem  of  how  we're  to  get  you  to  Trou- 
ville  in  time  for  dinner  with  the  Countess  Tcherny."  He 
took  a  road  map  from  his  pocket  and  spread  it  out  on 
his  knapsack  between  them,  while  Hermia  peered  over  his 
shoulder  and  followed  his  long  forefinger. 

"Evreux,  Conches,  Breteuil — we  must  be  about  here — 
yes — and  there's  your  crooked  railroad.  It  goes  around 
to  Evreux,  where  there's  a  through  line  to  the  coast.  You 
might  hire  a  horse  and  wagon — but  even  then  you  would 

109 


MADCAP 

hardly  get  to  Evreux  before  sunset.  Miss  Challoner,  I'm 
afraid  you'll  not  reach  Trouville  to-night " 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  she  said.  "It's  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference to  me  whether  I  reach  Trouville  at  all " 

"But  your  friends  will  worry." 

"Oh,  no — I  could  wire  them,  I  suppose " 

"Oh,  yes.  And  there's  a  good  inn  at  Evreux.  But 
we  had  better  be  going  at  once." 

He  folded  his  map,  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  rose,  sling- 
ing his  knapsack  across  his  shoulder  and  offering  her  a 
hand  to  rise.  But  she  didn't  move  or  look  at  him.  She 
had  plucked  a  blade  of  grass  and  was  nibbling  at  it,  her 
gaze  on  the  distant  landscape  to  the  southward. 

"Wait  a  moment,  please.  I — I've  something  more  to 
say  to  you." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly,  then  leaned  against  the  bole 
of  a  tree,  listening. 

"I — I  don't  know  just  what  you'll  think  of  me,  but  if  I 
— I  didn't  feel  pretty  sure  that  you'd  understand  what  I 
mean  I  don't  think  I'd  have  the  courage  to  speak  to  you. 
You  once  told  me  you  liked  me  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham,  and  I — I  know  you  meant  it  because  you're  not  a 
man  to  say  things  you  don't  mean." 

"That's  true,"  he  confirmed  her.    "I'm  not." 

"And  I  think  that's  one  of  the  reasons  I  believe  in 
you,"  she  went  on,  smiling,  "and  why  I  thought  your 
friendship  might  be  worth  while.  You're  the  only  person 
I've  ever  met  in  my  world  or  out  of  it  whose  opinions  were 
not  tainted  with  self-interest.  Can  you  wonder  that  I 
value  them?" 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said  genuinely.  "I'd  like  to 
help  you  if  I  can." 

"Would  you?"  she  asked,  "would  you  really?"  She 
110 


THE   GATES   OF   CHANCE 

rose  and  faced  him.  "Then  teach  me  the  secret  of  your 
happiness,  John  Markham,"  she  cried.  "Show  me  how  to 
live  my  life  so  that  I  can  get  as  much  out  of  it  as  you  get 
out  of  yours.  There  is — there  must  be  some  way  to  learn. 
I've  always  wanted  to  be  happy,  but  I've  never  known  how 
to  be.  When  I  grew  up,  people  told  me  how  much  better 
off  I  was  than  other  people,  how  happy  I  would  be — that 
anything  I  wanted  was  mine  for  the  asking,  measuring  my 
future  happiness — as  the  world  will — in  terms  of  dollars 
and  cents.  I'm  only  twenty-three,  John  Markham,  but 
I've  bought  from  life  already  all  it  has  to  offer.  Isn't 
there  something  else?  Isn't  there  something  that  one 
can't  buy?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "Freedom." 

"That's  it,"  she  cried.  "Freedom — I'm  a  slave.  I've 
always  been — a  slave  to  my  lawyers  and  trustees,  a  tool  in 
the  hands  of  the  people  who  fatten  on  me,  the  servants 
who  rob  me,  the  guests  who  natter  and  use  me,  the  people 
of  society  who  invite  me  to  their  houses  and  take  my  char- 
acter when  my  back  is  turned.  I'm  a  slave,  John  Mark- 
ham,  a  moral  coward,  afraid  of  my  enemies — afraid  of  my 
friends,  afraid  to  hate,  afraid  to  love — distrusting  every- 
one— even  myself." 

He  did  not  speak,  but  as  she  turned  toward  him  she 
saw  that  his  eyes  were  alight  with  comprehension.  She 
thrust  out  her  hands  impulsively  and  caught  his  in  her 
own. 

"Take  me  with  you,  John  Markham.  I  want  to  learn 
what  makes  you  happy — I  want  to  learn  your  secret  of 
living." 

"Impossible!"  he  stammered. 

She  dropped  his  hands  and  turned  away. 

"You  refuse  then?" 

Ill 


MADCAP __^ 

"I — I  didn't  say  so.    But  I  can't  believe " 

"You  must.  I've  paid  you  the  high  compliment  of 
thinking  you'd  understand." 

He  tangled  his  brows  in  perplexity.  "Yes — I'm  flat- 
tered— but  have  you  thought?  I'm  afoot — eating  and 
drinking  where  and  what  I  can  get,  sleeping  where  I  may. 
It  wouldn't  be  easy — for  a  girl." 

"I'm  not  made  of  tender  stuff "  she  broke  off  and 

turned  toward  him  with  an  impulsive  gesture. 

"If  you  don't  want  me,"  she  cried,  "tell  me  so.  I'll  be- 
lieve you  and  go." 

"No,"  he  muttered.  "I  won't  tell  you  that.  But  have 
you  thought  of  the  consequences?  Of  what  people  will 
think?" 

"Let  them  think  what  they  choose,"  she  said. 

She  met  the  inquisition  of  his  eyes  frankly  and  the 
thought  which  for  a  moment  had  troubled  him  went  flying 
to  the  winds  in  the  treetops.  For  all  her  experience  with 
the  world  she  was  a  child — with  a  trust  in  him  or  an  in- 
nocence which  was  appalling. 

"The  roads  of  France  are  free,"  he  laughed  gayly. 
"How  should  /  stop  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  delight.  "You  mean  it?  I 
may  go?  Oh,  John  Markham,  you're  a  jewel  of  a  man." 

"Perhaps  you  won't  think  so  when  we're  vagabonds 
together ;  for  vagabonds  you  must  be — taking  what  comes 
without  complaint — sour  wine — a  crust " 

"Here's  my  hand  on  it — a  vagabond — with  vagabond's 
luck — vagabond's  fare." 

He  studied  her  a  moment  again,  soberly  testing  her 
with  his  gaze,  but  she  did  not  flinch. 

"This,"  he  said  at  last,  "is  the  maddest  thing — you've 
ever  done." 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER 

HE  threw  the  knapsack  over  his  shoulder  and  picked 
up  Hermia's  leather  bag  which  had  been  saved 
from  the  wreck  of  the  machine,  but  she  quickly 
took  it  from  him. 

"No,"  she  said  sternly,  "I'll  do  my  own  carrying.  I'll 
take  my  half,  whatever  it  is."  She  led  the  way  out  into 
the  road,  then  paused. 

"Which  way,  brother?" 

He  pointed  with  his  stick.  "Southward,"  he  said,  but 
paused,  looking  down  the  hill  toward  the  gate-keeper's 
cottage  around  which  a  small  crowd  still  hovered.  "But 
there's  something  to  do  before  we  go." 

"The  machine?  There's  nothing  to  do  with  that.  I'll 
leave  it " 

"Not  only  the  machine — we'll  leave  something  else 
here." 

Her  puzzled  glance  questioned. 

"Our  identities — we'll  leave  them  here,  too,  if  you 
please,"  he  replied.  "The  person  by  the  name  of  Hermia 
Challoner  from  this  point  simply  ceases  to  exist " 

"She  does.  She  ceased  to  exist  ten  minutes  ago,"  she 
laughed  joyfully.  "And  John  Markham?" 

"Is  Philidor,  portrait  artist,  by  appointment  to  the 
proletariat  of  France,  at  two  francs  the  head." 

"Delicious!    And  I ?" 

"You?    You'll  have  to  be  my — er — sister." 
113 


MADCAP 

"Oh,  never !  I  simply  won't  be  your  sister.  That's  en- 
tirely too  respectable.  A  pretty  vagabond  you'll  have 
me !  You'll  be  giving  me  a  green  umbrella  and  a  copy  of 
Baedeker  nest.  I'll  be  something  devilish  and  French  or 
I'll  be  Hermia.  Yvonne — that's  my  name — Yvonne  Des- 
champs,  compagnon  de  voyage  of  the  Philidor  aforesaid." 

"No,"  he  protested. 

"Why  not?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  like  the  idea,"  he  said 
thoughtfully. 

"But  I  insist." 

He  looked  down  at  her  for  a  moment,  measuring  her 
with  his  eye,  and  then  smiled  and  shrugged  a  shoulder  with 
an  air  of  accepting  the  inevitable.  And  then  as  the 
thought  came  to  him. 

"Your  car — could  the  wreck  be  identified?" 

"Its  number.     We  must  find  that  and  destroy  it." 

They  went  down  the  hill  together  and,  eyed  by  the 
curious  peasants,  sauntered  down  the  track  where  Mark- 
ham,  after  some  searching  among  the  bushes,  found  the 
number  of  the  machine  still  clinging  to  the  ruins  of  the 
radiator.  This  he  unstrapped  and  slipped  into  his  knap- 
sack, presently  joining  Hermia,  who  was  making  her  peace 
with  the  gate-keeper. 

"Two  tires,  one  wheel — the  speedometer,"  she  was  say- 
ing in  French.  "I  will  leave  them  for  you  to  sell, 
Madame,  if  you  can.  And  Monsieur — he  may  have  what- 
ever else  is  left.  That  is  understood  between  you,  and 
these  gentlemen  will  bear  witness.  As  for  me — never  will 
I  ride  in  an  automobile  again.  If  it  pleases  you,  say  noth- 
ing more  of  this  than  may  be  necessary.  Adieu,  Madame 
ct  Monsieur." 

There  were  offers  of  conveyance  to  Evreux  (for  a  con- 
114 


THE  FAIRY   GODMOTHER 

sideration),  which  Markham  refused,  and  the  two  com- 
panions took  to  the  road  and  soon  passed  out  of  sight, 
leaving  the  group  of  peasants  staring  after  them,  still 
mystified  as  to  the  whole  occurrence  and  wondering  with 
Norman  stolidity  whether  Hermia  was  mad  or  just  a  fool. 
\  As  Hermia  followed  Markham  over  the  ridge  and  down 
the  long  slope  that  led  to  Vagabondia  a  deep-drawn 
breath  of  delight  escaped  her. 

The  gray  road  descended  slowly  into  a  valley,  already 
filled  with  the  long  shadows  of  the  afternoon — a  valley  of 
ripening  crops  laid  out  in  lozenges  of  green  and  purple 
and  gold,  like  a  harlequin  suit,  girdled  at  the  waist  by  the 
blue  ribbon  of  the  river,  a  cap  of  green  and  purple  where 
a  clump  of  young  oaks  perched  jauntily  on  the  bald  con- 
tour of  the  distant  hilltop;  above,  a  sky  of  blue  flecked 
with  saffron  and  silver  like  a  turquoise  matrix — against 
which  the  tall  poplars  marched  in  stately  procession,  their 
feathery  tops  nodding  solemnly  at  the  sun. 

It  was  curious.  From  a  car  the  landscape  had  never 
looked  like  this.  Indeed,  when  she  was  motoring,  Hermia 
never  saw  anything  much  but  the  stretch  of  road  in  front 
of  her,  its  "thank  ye  marms,"  its  ditches  and  its  speed 
signs. 

She  glanced  up  at  Markham,  who  strode  silently  be- 
side her,  his  pipe  hanging  bowl-downward  from  his  teeth, 
his  lips  smiling  under  the  shadowy  mustache,  his  eyes 
blinking  merrily  at  the  sky.  She  guessed  now  at  the  rea- 
son for  the  serenity  in  his  face,  as  to  which  she  had  been 
so  curious.  It  was  the  reflection  of  the  wide  blue  vault 
above  him,  the  quiet  river  and  the  dignity  of  the  distances. 

Hermia  paused  and  drank  the  air  in  gulps. 

"Vagabondia!  You've  opened  its  gates  to  me,  John 
Markham." 

115 


MADCAP 

He  looked  around  at  her  in  amusement. 

"There  are  no  gates  in  Vagabondia,  Miss  Challoner." 

"Miss  Challoner !"  she  reproved  him. 

"Hermia,  then.  Do  you  realize,  you  very  mischievous 
young  person,  that  this  is  precisely  the  fourth  time  that 
you  and  I  have  met  ?" 

"I  shall  call  you  John,  just  the  same,"  she  announced. 

"By  all  means,  or  Philidor — anything  else  would  be 
rather  silly — under  the  circumstances.  You  aren't  re- 
gretting this  madness?  There's  still  time  to  reconsider." 

"No,"  promptly.  "I've  burned  my  bridges.  En 
avant,  Monsieur." 

The  next  rise  of  land  brought  into  view  the  houses  of 
a  small  town  huddled  among  the  trees  along  the  river 
bank.  They  were  still  on  the  main  line  of  communication 
between  Paris  and  the  Coast,  and  here  perhaps  they  would 
find  a  telephone  or  telegraph  office.  Hermia  made  a  wry 
face. 

"I  didn't  know  there  were  any  telephones  in  Vaga- 
bondia." 

"There  aren't.  We  haven't  reached  there  yet."  He 
glanced  at  her  modish  French  suit  and  hat  and  down  at 
the  English  leather  traveling  case  she  was  carrying. 

"If  you  think  you  look  like  a  vagabond  in  that  get  up 
you're  much  mistaken,"  he  laughed. 

"I  don't.  I  know  I  don't,"  looking  ruefully  at  her 
clothes.  "But  I  will  before  long.  You'll  see." 

The  village  upon  closer  inspection  achieved  a  dignity 
which  the  distance  denied  it.  There  was  a  row  of  small 
shops,  a  brasserie  and  an  inn,  all  slumbering  under  the 
shadows  of  a  grove  of  trees.  The  road  became  a  street. 
Upon  their  left  a  gate  into  an  open-air  cabaret  under  the 
trees  next  to  a  wine  shop  stood  invitingly  open,  and  the 

116 


THE   FAIRY    GODMOTHER 

pilgrims  entered.  There  were  wooden  tables  and  benches 
upon  which  sat  some  workmen  in  their  white  smocks  drink- 
ing beer  and  discussing  politics. 

The  proprietor  of  the  place,  a  motherly  person,  took 
Markham's  order  and  went  indoors,  presently  emerging 
with  a  tray  which  bore  a  pitcher  of  cider,  a  wonderful 
cheese  and  a  tower  of  bread,  all  of  which  she  deposited 
before  them.  She  only  glanced  at  Markham,  for  she  was 
used  to  the  visits  of  traveling  craftsmen  along  the  high- 
way— but  she  studied  Hermia's  modish  frock  with  a  crit- 
ical eye.  After  the  first  polite  greetings  she  lingered 
nearby,  her  curiosity  getting  the  better  of  her  discretion. 

"Monsieur  and  Madame  are  stopping  at  the  Inn?"  she 
asked  at  last. 

Markham  smiled.  It  was  the  curiosity  of  interest 
rather  than  intrusiveness. 

Monsieur  and  Madame  had  not  decided  yet.  Was  the 
inn  a  good  one? 

Very  good.  Monsieur  Duchanel,  a  cousin  of  hers,  took 
great  pride  in  receiving  guests  who  knew  good  fare. 

All  the  while  she  was  appraising  with  a  Norman  eye 
the  value  of  the  feather  in  Hermia's  hat. 

"We  thought  of  going  on  to  Boisset,"  Markham  went 
on.  "Perhaps  it  is  too  far  to  reach  by  nightfall." 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu,  yes — if  one  is  walking — ten  kilometers 
at  the  least.  Did  Monsieur  and  Madame  desire  a  car- 


riage 


'r"' 


"No,  perhaps  after  all  we  will  stay  here." 

This  wouldn't  do  at  all.    To  be  taken  for  persons  who 

were  accustomed  to  the  excellences  of  French  cuisine  was 

not  Hermia's  idea  of  being  a  vagabond.     She  had  been 

studying  the  face  of  their  hostess  and  came  to  a  sudden 

117 


MADCAP         

resolution.  Here  was  the  person  who  could,  if  she  would, 
complete  her  emancipation.  Turning  to  Markham  she 
said  smoothly  in  French : 

"Will  you  go  on  to  the  Inn  and  see  if  you  can  find 
accommodations?  In  the  meanwhile  I  will  stay  here  and 
talk  with  Madame." 

Taking  the  hint  Markham  finished  his  glass  and  leav- 
ing his  knapsack  on  the  bench  went  out  into  the  high 
road  in  the  direction  indicated.  He  walked  slowly,  his 
head  bent  deep  in  thought,  realizing  for  the  first  time 
the  exact  nature  of  the  extraordinary  compact  which  he 
had  made  with  the  little  nonconformist  who  had  chosen 
him  for  a  traveling  companion.  The  more  he  thought  of 
the  situation  the  more  apparent  became  the  gravity  of 
his  responsibility.  Why  had  he  yielded  to  her  reckless 
whim?  Only  this  morning  he  had  been  thanking  his 
lucky  stars  that  he  was  well  rid  of  women  of  the  world 
for  a  month  at  least.  And  now — Shades  of  Pluto !  He 
had  one  hanging  around  his  neck  more  securely  than  any 
millstone.  And  this  one — Hermia  Challoner,  an  enthusi- 
ast without  a  mission — a  feminine  abnormity,  half  child, 
half  oracle,  wholly  irresponsible  and  yet,  by  the  same 
token,  wholly  and  delightfully  human! 

But  in  spite  of  the  charm  of  her  amiability  and  enthusi- 
asm he  felt  it  his  duty  to  think  of  her  at  this  moment  as 
the  daughter  of  Peter  Challoner,  the  arrogant,  hard- 
fisted  harvester  of  millions — to  think  of  her  as  he  had 
thought  of  her  when  she  had  left  his  studio  in  New 
York  with  Olga  Tcherny,  as  the  spoiled  and  rather  imper- 
tinent example  of  the  evils  of  careless  bringing  up,  but 
try  as  he  might  he  only  succeeded  in  visualizing  the  tired 
and  rather  unhappy  little  girl  who  wanted  to  learn  "how 
to  live."  Whether  that  confession  were  genuine  or  not 

118 


THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER 

it  made  an  appealing  picture — one  which  he  could  not 
immediately  forget. 

Markham  had  lived  in  the  thick  of  life  for  a  good 
many  years  as  a  man  must  who  wins  his  way  in  Paris, 
but  his  view  of  women  was  elemental,  like  that  of  the 
child  who  chooses  for  itself  at  an  early  age  between  the 
only  alternatives  it  knows,  "good"  and  "bad."  To  Mark- 
ham  women  were  good  or  they  were  bad  and  there  weren't 
any  women  to  speak  of  between  these  two  classifications. 
He  had  seen  Kermia  first  as  the  protegee  and  boon  com- 
panion of  the  Countess  Tcherny,  had  afterward  met  her 
as  the  intimate  of  such  men  as  Crosby  Downs  and  Carol 
Gouverneur,  and  of  such  women  as  Mrs.  Renshaw,  and 
yet  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  think  of  Hermia  as 
anything  but  the  spoiled  child  of  Peter  Challoner's  too 
eloquent  millions,  the  rebellious  victim  of  environment 
which  meant  the  end  of  idealism,  the  beginning  of  ob- 
livion. 

This  hapless  waif  of  good  fortune  had  thrown  her- 
self upon  his  protection  and  had  paid  him  the  highest 
compliment  that  a  woman  could  pay  a  man — a  faith  in 
him  that  was  in  itself  an  inspiration. 

Was  she  in  earnest  and  worth  teaching?  That  was 
the  rub,  or  would  weary  feet,  hunger,  thirst,  the  chance 
mishaps  of  the  road  bring  recantation  and  flight  to 
Trouville  or  to  Paris?  He  would  put  her  intentions  to 
the  test.  She  could  be  pretty  sure  of  that — and  if  she 
survived  this  week  under  his  program  of  peregrination 
and  philosophy  there  were  hopes  for  her  to  justify  his 
rather  impulsive  acquiescence. 

A  motor  approached  and  stopped  beside  him,  the  man 
at  the  wheel  asking  in  French  a  VAmericain  the  way  to 
Evreux.  He  directed  them  and  then,  finding  that  he  had 

119 


MADCAP 

emerged  upon  the  other  side  of  the  town,  returned  in 
search  of  the  Inn,  his  stride  somewhat  more  rapid 
than  before.  Of  one  thing  he  was  now  certain.  They 
must  get  away  from  the  main  road  without  any  further 
delay. 

He  found  Monsieur  Duchanel  smoking  a  pipe  upon  his 
door-sill.  It  was  no  wonder  that  he  had  passed  the  hos- 
telry by ;  for  saving  a  small  sign  obscured  by  the  shadows 
of  the  trees,  the  house,  an  ancient  affair  of  timber  and 
plaster,  differed  little  from  the  others  which  faced  the 
street. 

Monsieur  Duchanel  was  a  short,  round-bellied,  dust- 
colored  man,  with  gray  hair  and  a  tuft  upon  his  chin. 
He  was  the  same  color  as  his  house  and  his  sign  and  gave 
Markham  the  impression  of  having  sat  upon  this  same 
door-sill  since  the  years  of  a  remote  antiquity.  But  he 
got  up  blithely  enough  when  the  painter  announced  the 
object  of  his  visit  and  showed  him,  with  an  air  of  great 
pride,  through  the  sleeping  apartments  which  at  the 
present  moment  were  all  without  occupants.  One  room 
with  a  four-poster,  which  the  host  announced  had  once 
been  occupied  by  no  less  a  personage  than  Henri  Quatre, 
Markham  picked  out  for  Hermia,  and  chose  for  himself 
a  small  room  overlooking  the  courtyard  at  the  rear.  He 
ordered  dinner,  a  good  dinner,  with  soup,  an  entree  and 
a  roast  to  be  served  in  a  private  room.  The  American 
motorist  had  warned  him.  But  Vagabondia  should  not 
begin  until  to-morrow. 

These  arrangements  made,  he  returned  to  the  cabaret 
under  the  trees.  Hermia  had  disappeared,  so  he  sat  at 
the  table,  poured  out  another  glass  of  cider,  filled  his 
pipe  and  waited. 

The  political  argument  of  his  neighbors  drew  to  an 
120 


THE  "FAIRY   GODMOTHER 

end  with  the  end  of  their  beer  and  they  passed  him  on 
their  way  to  the  gate,  each  with  a  friendly  glance  and  a 
"Bon  soir,  Monsieur" — which  Markham  returned  in  kind. 
After  that  it  was  very  quiet  and  restful  under  the  trees. 
Markham  was  not  a  man  to  borrow  trouble  and  pre- 
ferred to  reach  his  bridges  before  he  crossed  them,  and 
so  whatever  the  elements  Hermia  was  to  inject  into  the 
even  tenor  of  his  holiday,  Markham  awaited  them  tran- 
quilly, though  not  without  a  certain  mild  curiosity  as  to 
what  was  to  happen  next. 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  remain  long  in  doubt;  for 
in  a  few  minutes  he  heard  Hermia's  light  laugh  in  the  door 
of  the  wine-shop,  followed  by  the  beating  of  a  drum,  the 
ringing  of  bells,  the  crashing  of  cymbals,  the  notes  of 
some  other  instrument  sounding  discordantly  between 
whiles.  And  as  he  started  to  his  feet,  wondering  what 
it  could  all  be  about,  a  blonde  head  stuck  out  past  the 
edge  of  the  door  and  peered  around  at  the  deserted  cab- 
aret. He  had  hardly  succeeded  in  identifying  the  head  as 
Hermia's  because  it  wore  a  scarlet  cap  embroidered  with 
small  bells  which  explained  the  bedlam  of  tinkling.  When 
the  rest  of  her  body  emerged  upon  the  scene  Markham 
noted  that  Hermia's  transformation  was  in  other  respects 
complete;  for  she  wore  a  zouave  jacket  of  red,  a  white 
blouse  and  a  blue  skirt.  Upon  her  back  was  a  round 
object  which  upon  closer  inspection  turned  out  to  be  a 
drum,  the  sticks  of  which  were  fastened  to  her  elbows, 
and  attached  to  her  neck  was  a  harmonica,  so  placed  that 
she  had  only  to  bend  her  head  forward  to  reach  it  with 
her  lips.  In  her  right  hand  was  a  mandolin  which  she 
waved  at  him  triumphantly  as  she  reached  him  with  a 
grand  crash,  squeak,  tinkle  and  thump  of  all  the  instru- 
ments at  once. 

121 


MADCAP 


Too  amazed  to  speak,  Markham  stood  grinning  at  her 
foolishly ! 

"Well?"  she  said,  throwing  her  head  and  elbows  back, 
provoking  an  unintentional  thump  and  tinkle.  "How  do 
you  like  me?" 

"Immensely !    But  what  does  it  all  mean  ?" 

"Foolish  man.  Mean!  It  means  that  Yvonne  Des- 
champs  has  found  a  fairy  godmother  who  has  transformed 
her.  She  has  now  become  a  Femme  Orchestre  and  for  two 
sous  will  discourse  sweet  music  to  the  rustic  ear — man- 
dolin and  mouth  organ,  bells,  cymbals  and  drum " 

She  ignored  the  protest  of  his  upraised  hand  and 
again  made  the  air  hideous  with  sound,  ending  it  all  with 
a  laugh  that  made  the  bells  in  her  cap  tinkle  merrily. 

"Oh,  I  don't  do  it  very  well  yet.  It's  the  first  time — 
but  you  shall  see " 

"Do  you  mean  that  you're  going  to  wear  that  har- 
ness ?" 

"I  do." 

"But  you  can't  walk  in  that." 

"The  orchestra  is  detachable,  mon  ami" 

"It  is  incredible " 

"And  I  have  engaged  a  creature  to  carry  it — — " 

"Meaning " 

"Not  you— behold." 

Markham  followed  her  symphonic  gesture.  Madame 
Bordier  approached,  leading  a  donkey  from  the  stable- 
yard,  a  diminutive  donkey  of  suspicious  eye  and  protest- 
ing ears. 

"She's  very  gentle,"  sighed  the  fairy  godmother.  "It 
hurts  the  heart  to  sell  her.  But  as  Monsieur  knows — 
the  times  are  not  what  they  used  to  be." 


THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER 

"She  is  adorable,"  cried  Hermia.  "Isn't  she,  John 
Markham?" 

"She  is,"  muttered  Markham,  caressing  the  stubble  at 
his  chin,  "entirely  so — a  vagabond — I  should  say,  every 
inch  of  her." 

It  was  not  until  they  had  reached  the  Inn  of  Mon- 
sieur Duchanel  some  time  later  that  Hermia,  having  di- 
vested herself  of  the  orchestral  adjuncts  of  her  costume, 
confided  to  Markham  the  stroke  of  good  fortune  which 
had  put  her  into  possession  of  this  providential  accoutre- 
ment. She  had  confessed  her  predicament  to  Madame 
Bordier,  who,  after  assuring  herself  that  Hermia  was  not 
an  escaping  criminal,  had  entered  with  grace  and  even 
some  avidity  upon  the  bargain.  Hermia  wanted  a  blouse, 
skirt  and  hat  somewhat  worn.  But  in  the  act  of  search- 
ing in  the  garret  of  the  wine-shop  among  the  effects  of 
a  departed  relative  the  great  discovery  had  been  made. 
As  Madame  Bordier  went  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  re- 
cesses of  the  matte  there  was  a  tinkling  sound  and  she 
emerged  with  the  cap  that  Hermia  wore  and  looked  at  it 
with  sighs  followed  by  tears.  At  the  appearance  of  each 
article  of  apparel,  Madame  wept  anew,  and  Hermia  lis- 
tened calmly  while  the  "great  idea"  was  slowly  being  born. 
It  was  the  daughter  of  Madame  Bordier's  late  sister — 
pauvre  file — who  had  worn  the  costume.  She  was  a 
Femme  Orchestre  of  such  skill  that  her  name  was  known 
from  one  end  of  the  Eure  to  another.  She  made  money, 
too,  bien  sur,  but  Tielasl  she  married  a  vaurien  acrobat 
who  had  taken  her  off  to  America,  where  she  had  died  last 
year.  Those  clothes — bon  Dieu! — they  recalled  the  days 
of  happiness;  but  if  Mademoiselle  desired  them,  she, 
Madame  Bordier,  could  not  stand  in  the  way.  Times  were 


MADCAP _^^ 

hard,  as  Mademoiselle  knew,  and  if  she  would  give  two 
hundred  francs 

"Two  hundred  francs  !"  put  in  Markham  at  this  point. 

"I  paid  it,"  said  Hermia,  firmly,  "and  two  hundred 
more  for  the  donkey.  It  was  all  I  had.  And  now,  as 
you  see,  I  must  work  for  my  living." 

Markham  laughed.  His  responsibilities,  it  seemed, 
were  increasing  with  the  minutes. 

They  dined  alone  at  the  Hotel  des  Rois,  Monsieur 
Duchanel  himself  doing  them  the  honor  of  serving  the 
repast,  which  Hermia  soon  discovered  had  none  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  vagabond  fare  promised  her — a 
velvety  soup — petits  pois  a  la  creme,  an  entree,  then 
poulet  roti,  salade  endive,  cheese  and  coffee — a  meal  for 
the  gods  which  these  mortals  partook  of  with  unusual 
enjoyment.  The  coffee  served,  their  host  departed  with 
one  last  inquiry  for  their  comfort,  which  more  even  than 
the  cooking  and  service  betrayed  his  appreciation  of  their 
proper  condition. 

"Such  a  dinner!"  said  Hermia  contemptuously  when 
he  went  out.  "I'm  so  disappointed.  Where  are  your 
crust  and  sour  wine,  John  Markham?  I'm  losing  faith  in 
your  sincerity.  I  'ask  for  bread'  and  you  give  me  poulet 
Duchanel.  I  want  to  be  bourgeois  and  everyone  treats 
me  like — like  a  rich  American.  Shall  I  never  escape?" 
she  sighed. 

"To-morrow "  said  Markham  through  a  cloud  of 

smoke.  "To-morrow  you  shall  be  a  vagabond.  I 
promise  you." 

And,  as  she  still  looked  at  him  doubtingly,  "You  don't 
believe  it?  Then  look!" 

He  brought  out  his  hand  from  a  pocket  and  laid  some 
money  on  the  table.  "That's  all  I  have,  do  you  see? 


THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER 

Fifty  francs — twenty  of  it  at  least  must  go  for  this  din- 
ner— I  can  observe  it  in  the  eye  of  Monsieur  Duchanel — 
ten  more  for  your  chambre  Henri  Quatre — five  for  mine — 
leaving  us  in  all  fifteen  francs  to  begin  life  on.  You  will 
not  feel  like  a  rich  American  to-morrow — unless  you  care 
to  send  to  your  bankers " 

"Sh !"  she  whispered  theatrically.  "There  is  no 

such  tiling  as  a  banker  in  the  world." 

"You  will  wish  there  were  before  the  week  is  out." 

"Will  I?    You  shaU  see." 

So  far  her  enthusiasm  was  genuine  enough.  But  the 
philosophy  begotten  of  a  poulet  Duchanel  might  easily 
account  for  such  optimism.  Indeed  to-night  Markham 
himself  was  disposed  to  see  all  things  the  color  of  roses. 
The  small  voice  of  his  conscience  still  protested  faintly  at 
the  unconventional  character  of  their  fellowship  and  re- 
minded him  that,  whatever  her  indifference  to  conse- 
quences, his  obligation  to  protect  her  from  her  own  im- 
prudences became  the  more  urgent.  But  there  was  a 
charm  in  the  situation  which  quite  surpassed  anything  in 
his  experience.  She  was  a  child  to-night — nothing  more — 
and  the  zouave  jacket  and  short  skirt  quite  obliterated 
the  memory  of  that  young  lady  of  fashion  who  had  pre- 
sided a  short  time  ago  at  the  head  of  the  long  dinner- 
table  at  "Wake  Robin."  If  there  was  any  doubt  in  her 
mind  as  to  the  propriety  of  what  she  had  done — of  what 
she  planned  to  do,  or  any  doubt  as  to  his  own  share  in 
the  arrangement,  her  gay  mood  gave  no  sign  of  it,  and 
the  frankness  of  h3r  friendship  for  him  left  nothing  to  be 
desired.  What  did  it  matter,  after  all,  so  long  as  they 
were  happy — so  long  as  no  one  learned  the  secret. 

His  brow  clouded  and  she  read  his  thought. 

"You're  worried  about  me." 

125 


MAVC'AP 

He  nodded. 

"The  sooner  we're  far  away  from  the  high  road  be- 
tween Paris  and  Trouville,  the  better  I'll  be  pleased." 

She  smiled  down  at  her  costume. 

"No  one  will  possibly  know  me  in  this.  That's  why  I 
got  it." 

"Don't  be  too  sure.    There  are  people "  he  paused, 

his  thoughts  flying,  curiously  enough,  to  Olga  Tcherny, 
"people  who  wouldn't  understand,"  he  finished. 

She  laughed. 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  It's  quite  possible  I  wouldn't  under- 
stand myself.  We're  never  quite  so  impressed  with  our 
own  virtues  as  when  we  can  find  flaws  in  other  people. 
But  you  know  I'm  not  courting  discovery." 

"Nor  I.    We  must  leave  here  at  dawn." 

"As  you  please.     Now  I'm  going  to  bed." 

She  got  up  and  gave  him  her  hand  and  he  led  her  to 
the  door. 

"Good  night,  Hermia,  and  pleasant  dreams.  You  shall 
taste  the  springs  at  their  fountain  head,  meet  the  world 
with  naked  hands,  learn  the  luxury  of  contentment;  or 
else "  as  he  paused  she  put  her  hand  before  his  lips. 

"There  is  no  alternative.  I  shall  not  fail  you.  Good 
night,  Philidor." 

"Good  night,  Hermia." 

Markham  sought  out  Duchanel  and  sent  a  telegram  to 
Olga  which  Hermia  had  dictated.  "Have  changed  my 
plans.  Am  leaving  with  a  party  for  a  tour  of  French 
Inns.  Will  communicate  later." 

Duchanel  understood.  The  message  would  be  for- 
warded from  Paris  as  Monsieur  directed.  No  one  in 
Passy  or  elsewhere  should  know. 

Markham  nodded  and  paid  the  bill,  producing  from  a 

126 


THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER 

wallet  which  Hermia  had  not  seen  an  additional  amount 
which  Duchanel  found  sufficient  to  compensate  him  for 
his  trouble. 

"You  understand,  Monsieur?"  said  Markham,  as  he 
went  up  to  bed.  "Madame  and  I  are  leaving  here  a  pied. 
We  shall  have  coffee  and  brioche  at  five.  You  will  not 
remember  which  way  we  go." 

"Parfaitement,  Monsieur.    You  may  rely  upon  my  dis- 
cretion." 


CHAPTER    XIII 
VAGABONDIA 

THEY  took  the  road  in  the  gray  of  a  morning  over- 
cast with  clouds  and  portentous  of  a  storm.     At 
the  last  moment,  their  host,  with  an  eye  upon  the 
weather  (and  another  upon  Markham's  hidden  wallet), 
had  sought  to  keep  them  until  the  skies  were  more  pro- 
pitious.    But  they  were  not  to  be  dissuaded  and  trudged 
off  briskly,  Monsieur  Duchanel  and  Madame  Bordier  ac- 
companying them  to  the  cross-roads  and  bidding  them 
God-speed  upon  their  journey. 

Markham,  pipe  in  mouth,  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes, 
his  coat  collar  turned  up,  showed  the  way,  while  Hermia, 
her  finery  hidden  under  a  long  coat,  followed,  leading  the 
donkey,  which,  after  a  few  preliminary  remonstrances, 
consented  to  accompany  them.  A  tarpaulin  covered  Her- 
mia's  orchestra  and  Markham's  knapsack  which  were  se- 
curely packed  upon  the  animal — a  valiant,  if  silent  com- 
pany, marching  confidently  into  the  unknown,  Hermia 
smiling  defiance  at  the  clouds,  Markham  smoking  grimly, 
the  donkey  ambling  impassively,  the  least  concerned  of 
the  three. 

A  rain  had  fallen  in  the  night  but  Hermia  splashed 
through  the  mud  and  water  joyously,  like  a  child,  thank- 
ful nevertheless  for  Markham's  thoughtfulness  which  had 
provided  her  last  night  with  a  pair  of  stout  shoes  and 
heavy  stockings.  To  a  spirit  less  blithe  than  hers  the 
outlook  would  have  been  gloomy  enough,  for  all  the  morn- 
ing the  clouds  skurried  fast  overhead  and  squalls  of  rain 

128 


FAGABONDIA 


and  fog  drove  into  the  misty  south.  The  trees  turned  the 
white  backs  of  their  shivering  leaves  to  the  wind  and 
dripped  moisture.  The  birds  silently  preened  their  wet 
plumage  on  the  fences  or  sought  the  shelter  of  the  hedges. 
Nature  had  conspired.  But  Hermia  plodded  on  undis- 
mayed, aware  of  her  companion's  long  stride  and  his  in- 
difference to  discomfort.  Her  shoes  were  soaked  and  at 
every  step  the  donkey  splashed  her  new  stockings,  but 
she  did  not  care;  for  she  had  discovered  a  motive  in  life 
and  followed  her  quest  open-eyed,  aware  that  already 
she  was  rearranging  her  scale  of  values  to  suit  her  pres- 
ent condition.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  the  "needs  and 
hitches"  of  life  and  had  a  sense  of  the  flints  strewn  under 
foot.  Her  mind  was  already  both  occupied  and  composed. 
She  was  quite  moist  and  muddy.  She  had  never  been 
moist  or  muddy  before  without  the  means  at  hand  to  be- 
come dry  and  clean.  Those  means  lacking,  mere  comfort 
achieved  an  extraordinary  significance — reached  at  a 
bound  an  importance  which  surprised  her. 

After  a  while  Markham  glanced  at  her  and  drew 
alongside. 

"Discouraged?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  smiled  at  him.  "But  I  hadn't  an  idea 
that  rain  was  so  wet." 

"I  promised  you  the  fountain  springs  of  life — not 
a  deluge,"  he  laughed.  "But  it  won't  last,"  he  added 
cheerfully  with  a  glance  at  the  sky.  "It  should  clear 
soon." 

"I  don't  care.  The  sunshine  will  be  so  much  the  more 
welcome." 

He  smiled  at  her  approvingly. 

"You  are  learning.  That's  the  vagabond  philos- 
ophy." 

129 


MADCAP 

He  was  a  true  prophet.  In  an  hour  a  brisk  wind  from 
the  west  had  blown  the  storm  away  and  burnished  the 
sky  like  a  new  jewel.  All  things  animate  suddenly  awoke 
and  field  and  road  were  alive  with  people.  The  birds  ap- 
peared from  tree  and  bush  and  set  joyously  about  get- 
ting their  belated  breakfasts.  A  miracle  had  happened, 
it  seemed  to  Hermia.  The  blood  in  her  veins  surged  de- 
liciously,  and  all  the  world  rejoiced  with  her.  And  yet 
— it  was  merely  that  the  sun  had  come  out. 

They  had  mounted  a  high  hill  and  stopped  for  breath 
at  its  summit.  The  country  over  which  they  were  to  travel 
was  spread  out  for  their  inspection.  Down  there  in  the 
valley  the  river  choosing  its  leisurely  course  northward  to 
the  Seine,  and  beyond  it  the  harlequin  checkerboard  of 
vine  and  meadow,  the  sentinel  poplars,  and  to  the  east- 
ward the  blue  hills  that  sheltered  Ivry-la-Bataille.  Tiny 
villages,  each  with  its  slender  campanile,  made  incidental 
notes  of  life  and  color  and  here  and  there,  afar,  the  tall 
chimneys  of  factories  stained  the  sky.  About  them  in  the 
nearer  fields  were  hay-wagons  and  workers,  men  and 
women,  their  shouts  and  songs  floating  up  the  hill  refined 
and  mellowed  by  the  distances. 

Hermia  took  the  air  into  her  lungs,  and  surveyed  the 
landscape. 

"All  this,"  said  Markham,  "is  yours  and  mine — you 
see,  when  you  have  nothing,  everything  belongs  to  you." 

She  laughed. 

"You  won't  dare  to  put  that  philosophy  to  the  test. 
There's  a  delicious  odor  of  cooking  food.  If  everything 
belongs  to  me,  I'll  trouble  you  for  the  contents  of  that 
coffee-pot." 

"Not  hungry  already !" 

130 


FAGABONDIA 


"Frightfully  so.    I  haven't  eaten  for  ages." 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It's  only  eleven,  but  of  course ' 

"Oh,  don't  let  me  interfere  with  your  plans." 

"You  don't.  I  have  no  plans.  We'll  go  into  camp  at 
once." 

They  descended  the  hill  and  after  a  while  found  a 
secluded  spot  near  the  river  bank.  Markham  quickly  un- 
strapped the  donkey's  pack  and  to  Hermia's  surprise 
drew  forth  a  loaf  of  bread,  some  cheese  and  a  bottle  of 
red  wine  which  he  set  out  with  some  pride  on  a  flat  rock 
near  by. 

"This,"  he  announced,  "is  our  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette. 
I  won't  apologize  for  it." 

"Wonderful  man!  Somehow  you  remind  me  of  the 
sleight-of-hand  performer  producing  an  omelette  from  a 
silk  hat.  I  don't  think  I've  ever  been  really  hungry  before 
in  my  life." 

He  opened  the  bottle  with  the  corkscrew  on  his 
pocket-knife  and  watched  her  munching  hungrily  at  the 
rye-bread. 

"Half  the  pleasure  in  life,  after  all,  is  wanting  a  thing 
and  getting  it,"  he  observed.  "How  can  you  want  any- 
thing if  you've  already  got  it?" 

"I  can't,"  she  mumbled,  her  mouth  full,  "unless  per- 
haps it's  this  bread." 

He  passed  the  bottle  to  her  and  she  drank  from  it 
sparingly,  passing  it  to  him  again. 

"Every  wine  is  a  vintage  if  you're  thirsty  enough,"  he 
added.  "The  trouble  with  our  world  is  that  most  of 
its  people  are  always  about  half  full  of  food.  You  can't 
really  enjoy  things  to  eat  or  things  to  drink  unless  you're 
quite  empty.  It's  the  same  thing  with  ideas.  You  can't 

131 


MADCAP 

think  very  clearly  when  you're  half  full  of  other  people's 
biases." 

"Or  their  b-bread  and  ch-cheese !"  she  said,  choking. 
Further  than  that  she  did  not  reply  at  once.  The  reasons 
were  obvious.  But  she  munched  reflectively,  and  when 
she  had  swallowed: 

"If  all  your  arguments  are  as  convincing  as  your  fare, 
then  you  and  I  shall  never  disagree,"  she  said. 

Clarissa,  for  that  was  the  name  she  had  given  the  beast, 
was  turned  loose  in  the  meadow.  Markham  sat  beside 
Hermia  on  the  warm  rock,  and,  between  them,  without 
further  words,  they  finished  both  the  wine  and  the  food. 
Markham  filled  his  pipe  and  stretched  out  at  full  length 
in  lazy  content  while  she  sat  beside  him,  brushing  the  dried 
cakes  of  mud  from  her  skirt  and  stockings. 

"Well,  here  we  are  across  the  Rubicon,"  she  said  at 
last. 

He  nodded. 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

"No,  not  in  the  least.  I'm  more  astonished  than  any- 
thing else  at  the  ridiculous  simplicity  of  my  emancipa- 
tion. Yesterday  at  this  hour  I  was  a  highly  respectable 
if  slightly  pampered  person  with  a  shrewd  sense  of  my 
own  importance  in  the  economic  and  social  scheme;  to- 
day I'm  a  mere  biped — an  instinct  on  legs,  with  nothing 
to  recommend  me  but  an  amiable  disposition  and  an  ab- 
normal appetite." 

"You've  made  progress,"  he  laughed  lazily.  "Yester- 
day you  lisped  knowingly  of  devil-wagons.  You  weren't 
even  a  biped.  I'll  admit  it's  something  to  have  discovered 
the  possession  of  legs." 

"I  do.  And  it's  something  more  to  have  discovered  the 
possession  of  an  appetite." 


FAGABONDIA 


"And  still  something  more  to  discover  a  means  to 
gratify  it,"  he  grunted. 

If  he  sought  to  intimidate  her,  he  failed  of  his  object, 
for  she  only  laughed  at  him. 

"Oh,  I  shall  not  starve.  Presently  you  shall  hear  me 
practice  with  my  orchestra.  Just  now,  mon  ami,  I'm  too 
delightfully  sleepy  to  think  of  doing  anything  else." 

"Sleep,  then." 

He  laid  his  coat  on  the  rock,  and  she  sank  back  upon 
it,  but  not  to  close  her  eyes.  They  were  turned  on  a 
squadron  of  clouds  which  sailed  in  the  wide  bay  between 
the  forest  and  the  hilltop.  Markham,  leaning  on  an  el- 
bow, puffed  at  his  pipe  in  silence.  She  turned  her  head 
and  looked  at  him. 

"It's  curious "  she  began,  and  then  paused. 

"What  is — curious?" 

She  laughed. 

"Curious  with  what  little  ceremony  I  threw  myself  on 
your  mercy;  curious  that  you've  been  so  tolerant  with 
me;  curious  that — you've  no  curiosity." 

"I  never  believe  in  being  curious,"  he  laughed.  "When 
you're  ready,  you'll  tell  me  and  not  before." 

"About  what?" 

"About  young  Armistead,  for  instance." 

"We  disagreed.     He  insisted  on  marrying  me." 

"That  was  tactless  of  him." 

"You  know  it  was  only  a  trial  engagement,  and  it  was 
— a  trial — to  both  of  us." 

Markham  grinned. 

"You've  relieved  my  mind  of  one  burden,  at  least,"  he 
said.  "I  like  Reggie.  He's  a  nice  boy.  But  I  haven't 
any  humor  to  find  him  poking  around  in  these  bushes  with 
a  shotgun." 

133 


MADCAP 

"Oh,  there's  no  danger  of  that,"  she  replied  demurely, 
oblivious  of  his  humor.  "Reggie  and  I  have  parted." 

Markham's  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  clouds.  "That's 
rather  a  pity — in  a  way,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  thought 
you  were  quite  suited  to  each  other.  But  then — "  and  / 
he  surprised  a  curious  look  in  her  eyes  " — if  you  were 
going  to  marry  Reggie,  you  see,  you  couldn't  be  here — 
and  I  would  be  the  loser." 

"I  don't  see  that  that  would  have  made  the  slightest 
(difference,"  she  replied  rather  tartly,  "provided  I  had  not 
married  him." 

"Oh,  don't  you?"  he  finished  with  a  smile. 

"No,  I  don't.  And  I  don't  believe  you  when  you  say 
that  you  think  Reggie  and  I  were  suited  to  each  other.  Be- 
cause if  you  thought  I  was  the  kind  of  girl  to  be  satisfied 
with  Reggie,  you  wouldn't  have  thought  it  worth  while 
to  make  a  vagabond  of  me." 

His  brows  drew  downward.  "I  haven't  made  a  vaga- 
bond of  you — not  yet." 

She  examined  his  face  steadily. 

"You  mean — that  you  don't  believe  me  to  be  sincere?" 

He  didn't  reply  at  once. 

"I  won't  quibble  with  you,  Hermia,"  he  said  in  a  mo- 
ment. "You've  paid  me  a  pretty  compliment  by  coming 
with  me  out  here.  But  I'm  not  going  to  let  it  blind  my 
judgment.  You  were  hopelessly  bored — back  there. 
You've  admitted  it.  You  felt  the  need  of  some  other 
form  of  amusement — so  you  chose  this.  That's  all." 

Hermia  straightened  and  sat  with  her  hands  clasped 
around  her  knees,  looking  at  vacancy. 

"That's  unkind  of  you,"  she  said  quietly. 

"I  don't  mean  it  to  be  unkind,"  he  went  on  softly.  "I 
don't  deny  the  genuineness  of  your  impulse.  But  you 

134 


"Even  Clarissa  stopped  her  grazing  long  enough  to  look  up." 


FAGABONDIA 


mustn't  forget  that  you  and  I  have  grown  up  in  different 
schools.  I'm  selfish  in  my  way  as  you  are  in  yours.  I 
choose  this  life  because  I  love  it  better  than  anything  else, 
because  it's  my  idea  of  contentment.  I've  approached  it 
thoughtfully  and  with  a  great  deal  of  respect,  as  a  result 
of  some  years  of  patient  and  unsuccessful  experiment 
with  other  forms  of  existence.  That's  the  reason  why  I'm 
a  little  jealous  for  it,  a  little  suspicious  of  your  sudden 
conversion." 

"You  have  no  right  to  doubt  my  sincerity — not  yet," 
she  said. 

"No,"  slowly.  "Not  yet.  I'm  only  warning  you  that 
it  isn't  going  to  be  easy — warning  you  that  you  will  be 
placed  in  positions  that  may  be  unpleasant  to  you,  when 
our  relations  may  be  questioned " 

"I've  considered  that,"  quickly.  "I'm  prepared  for 
that.  I  will  do  what  is  required  of  me." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment  in  his  own, 
but  she  would  not  look  at  him. 

"Hermia " 

"What,  Philidor?" 

"You're  not  angry?" 

"Not  in  the  least.     I'm  not  a  fool " 

Suddenly  she  sprang  down  the  rock  away  from  him, 
and,  before  he  knew  what  she  was  about,  had  fastened  her 
"orchestra"  around  her  and  was  making  the  air  hideous 
with  sound.  He  sat  up,  swinging  his  long  legs  over  the 
edge  of  the  rock,  watching  her  and  laughing  at  the  futile 
efforts  of  her  members  to  achieve  a  concert.  Even  Clar- 
issa stopped  her  grazing  long  enough  to  look  up,  ears 
erect,  eying  the  musician  in  grave  surprise,  and  then, 
with  a  contemptuous  flirt  of  her  tail,  went  on  with  her 
repast. 

135 


MADCAP ^^^ 

"Everyone  knows  a  donkey  has  no  soul  for  music," 
laughed  Hermia,  in  a  breathless  pause  between  efforts. 

"Meaning  me?" 

"Meaning  both  of  you,"  said  Hermia.  "Wait  a  mo- 
ment." 

She  tuned  her  mandolin,  and,  neglecting  the  harmon- 
ica, in  a  moment  drew  forth  some  chords  and  then  sang: 

"Sur  le  pont  cT Avignon 
I? on  y  danse,  Von  y  danse, 
Sur  le  pont  d' 'Avignon 
L'on  y  danse  tout  en  rond." 

And  then,  after  a  pause,  with  an  elaborate  curtsey  to 
Clarissa : 

"Les  beaux  messieurs  font  comme  ca 
Et  puts  encore  comme  ca." 

"The  Pont  d'Avignon?"  he  laughed  with  delight. 
"Bravo,  Yvonne !" 

"Now  perhaps  you'll  believe  in  me." 

"I  do.  I  will.  Until  the  end  of  time,"  he  cried.  "Once 
more  now,  with  the  drum  obbligato." 

She  obeyed  and  found  it  difficult  because  every  time 
her  elbows  struck  the  drum  her  fingers  flew  from  the 
mandolin.  But  she  managed  it  at  last,  and  in  the  end 
made  shift  to  use  the  harmonica,  too. 

Then  followed  "The  Marseillaise."  That  was  easier. 
The  air  had  a  swing  to  it,  and  she  managed  both  the  drum 
and  the  cymbals.  But  it  was  warm  work  and  she  stopped 
for  a  while,  rosy  and  breathless. 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"Oh,  magnificent.     Yvonne  Deschamps — Femme  Or- 

136 


VAGABONDIA 


chestre,  Messieurs  et  Dames,  queen  of  the  lyrical  world, 
the  musical  marvel  of  the  century,  artist  by  appointment 
to  the  President  of  the  Republique  Francaise  and  all  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe.  How  will  that  do?" 

"Beautifully.     And  you — what  will  you  do?" 

"I—         Oh,  I  will  pass  the  hat." 

She  laughed. 

"So !  You  intend  to  live  in  luxury  at  my  expense.  No, 
thank  you,  Monsieur  Philidor.  I'm  doing  my  share. 
You  shall  do  yours.  I'll  trouble  you  to  keep  your  word. 
You  shall  paint  portraits  at  two  francs  a  head." 

"I  didn't  really  intend " 

"You  shall  keep  your  promise,"  she  insisted. 

"But,  Hermia,  I " 

"There  are  no  'buts' !"  she  broke  in.  "A  moment  ago 
you  indulged  in  some  fine  phrases  at  the  expense  of  my 
sincerity.  Now  look  to  yours.  We'll  have  an  honest 
partnership — an  equal  partnership,  or  we'll  have  no  part- 
nership." 

He  rubbed  his  head  reflectively. 

"Oh,  I'll  do  it,  I  suppose,"  he  said  at  last. 
She  laughed  at  him  and  resumed  her  practicing,  making 
some  notable  improvements  on  her  first  attempts  and  add- 
ing "Mere  Michel"  and  "Au  Claire  de  la  Lune"  "Le  Roi 
Dagobert"  to  her  repertoire. 

"Where  on  earth  did  you  learn  that?"  he  asked  in  an 
entr'acte. 

"At  school — in  Paris." 

"And  the  mandolin?" 

"A  parlor  trick.  You  see,  I'm  not  so  useless,  after 
all." 

Presently,  when  she  sat  beside  him  to  rest,  he  brought 
out  a  pad  and  crayon  and  made  a  drawing  of  her  in  her 

137 


MADCAP 

cap  and  bells.  He  began  a  little  uncertainly,  a  little 
carelessly,  but  his  interest  growing,  in  a  moment  he  was 
absorbed. 

Whatever  knowledge  of  her  had  been  hidden  from  him 
as  a  man,  it  seemed  suddenly  revealed  to  the  painter  now. 
The  broad,  smooth  brow  which  meant  intelligence,  the 
short  nose,  which  meant  amiability,  the  nostrils  well 
arched,  which  meant  pride,  the  firm  rounded  lips,  which 
meant  sensibility,  the  sharp  little  declivity  beneath  them 
and  the  squarish  chin,  which  meant  either  wilfulness  or 
determination  (he  chose  the  former),  and  the  eyes,  gray 
blue,  set  ever  so  slightly  at  an  angle,  which  could  mean 
much  or  nothing  at  all. 

"Do  you  see  me  like  that?"  she  laughed  when  it  was 
finished.  "I'm  so  glad.  You  can  draw,  can't  you?" 

He  held  out  his  palm. 

"Two  francs,  please." 

She  put  the  sketch  behind  her  back. 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur.  Not  so  fast.  You  shall  give  me 
this  for  the  sake  of  my  belle  musique.  Is  not  that  fair?" 

"But  I've  taken  rather  a  fancy  to  it  myself." 

"We'll  compromise,"  and  she  stuck  it  up  on  a  crevice 
of  the  rock,  "and  hang  it  on  the  wall  of  the  dining-room." 

Another  rehearsal  of  Hermia's  program,  longer  this 
time  and  with  a  greater  care  for  details ;  and  then  Mark- 
ham  looked  at  his  watch,  knocked  out  his  pipe,  and  re- 
ported that  it  was  time  they  were  on  their  way. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  had  reached  a  fork  of  the 
road. 

"Which  way  now,  camarade?"  cried  Hermia,  who  was 
leading.  Markham  examined  the  bushes,  the  trees,  and 
the  fences.  He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  a 

138 


VAGAEONDIA 


minute  object  by  the  side  of  the  road,  a  twig,  as  Hermia 
saw,  broken  in  the  middle,  the  open  angle  toward  them. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  she  asked. 

"It's  the  patteran,"  he  replied,  "and  it  points  to  the 
west  road. 

And  so  to  the  westward  they  went. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE   FABIANI   FAMILY 

THE  walking  was  easier  now.     It  was  blither,  too. 
Hermia's    achievements    in    a    musical    way    had 
given  her  confidence.     If  Madame  Bordier's  de- 
funct niece  had  been  the  best  Femme  Orcliestre  in  the 
Eure,  there  was  no  reason  why  Hermia  shouldn't  fit  into 
her  reputation  as  comfortably  as  she  fitted  into  her  post- 
humous garments.      Clarissa,  too,  jogged  along  without 
her  bridle,  and  Markham  found  little  use  for  the  goad  he 
had  whittled  to  save  the  use  of  the  halter.     The  people  on 
the  road  looked  at  them  curiously,  passed  a  rough  jest, 
and  sent  them  on  the  merrier.     Markham  had  destroyed 
his  road  map  and  now  they  followed  the  patter  an,  leaving 
their  destiny  to  fortune.     In  the  late  afternoon,  on  their 
way  through  a  forest,  Clarissa  suddenly  halted  and,  in 
spite  of  much  urging,  refused  to  go  on.     Hermia  took  the 
halter  and  Markham  the  goad,  and  after  a  while  they 
moved  slowly   forward,   the  donkey   still  protesting.      A 
skurrying  in  the  underbrush,  and  several  dogs  appeared, 
barking  furiously.     Their  offensiveness  went  no  further 
than  this,  however,  and  in  a  moment  Markham  made  out 
the  bulk  of  a  roulotte  in  the  shadows  of  the  wood,  the 
shaggy  specter  of  a  horse,  a  camp-fire,  and  a  party  of 
caravaners.    There  was  a  strip  of  carpet  laid  out  near  the 
fire  upon  which  a  small  figure,  clad  only  in  an  undershirt 
and  a  pair  of  faded  red  trunks,  was  busily  engaged  in 

140 


THE   FABIANI   FAMILY 


wrapping  its  legs  round  the  back  of  its  neck.  The  cause 
of  Clarissa's  unhappiness  was  also  apparent ;  for  chained 
to  a  sapling  nearby,  rolling  its  great  head  foolishly  from 
side  to  side,  sat  a  tame  bear. 

There  were  greetings  as  the  newcomers  approached, 
the  dogs  were  called  off,  and  a  burly  man  rose  and  came 
to  the  roadside  to  meet  them. 

"Bona  jou,"  he  said,  smiling,  his  teeth  milk  white  un- 
der his  stringy  black  mustache.  Markham  returned  the 
salutation.  The  caravaner  glanced  at  Hermia's  costume 
and  swept  off  his  hat. 

"You  go  to  Alencon  for  the  fete?"  he  asked  in  very 
bad  French. 

Markham  nodded.  It  was  easier  to  nod  than  to  ex- 
plain just  now.  The  big  man  smiled  again  and  pointed 
to  the  fire  with  a  gesture  of  invitation.  After  a  glance  at 
Hermia,  in  whose  face  he  read  affirmation,  Markham  as- 
sented, and  urging  the  unwilling  donkey,  he  and  Hermia 
followed  their  host  down  the  slope  and  into  the  glen. 

The  small  figure  on  the  carpet,  which  had  not  for  one 
moment  ceased  its  contortions,  now  consented  to  unwind 
its  limbs  and  stand  upright ;  and  in  this  position  assumed 
definite  form  as  a  slender  slip  of  a  girl,  about  twelve  years 
of  age.  A  man  and  a  woman  with  a  baby  rose  and  greeted 
them.  The  introductions  were  formal.  They  had  fallen, 
it  seems,  upon  the  tender  mercies  of  the  Fabiani  Family 
of  Famous  Athletes.  The  big  man  tapped  his  huge 
chest. 

"J/oz/"  he  announced  with  pardonable  pride.  "I  am 
Signer  Cleofonte  Fabiani,  the  world's  greatest  wrestler 
and  strong  man.  Here,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  others,  "is 
Signor  Luigi  Fabiani,  the  world's  greatest  acrobat ;  there 
Signora  Fabiani,  world  famous  as  a  juggler  and  hand 


MADCAP 

balancer;  Signorina  Stella  Fabiani,  the  child  wonder  of 
the  twentieth  century." 

He  recited  this  rapidly  and  with  much  more  assurance 
than  his  ordinary  command  of  French  had  indicated,  giv- 
ing complexion  to  the  thought,  as  did  his  gestures,  that 
this  was  his  public  confession. 

Not  to  be  outdone  in  civility,  Markham  replied: 

"Mademoiselle "  he  paused  and  changed  her  title 

to  "Madame"  (a  discretion  which  the  others  acknowl- 
edged with  nods  of  the  head) — Madame  was  Yvonne 
Deschamps,  premiere  lady  musician  of  the  world,  who 
played  five  separate  and  distinct  musical  instruments  at 
one  and  the  same  time — an  artist  known,  as  the  Signer 
would  perhaps  be  aware,  from  Sicily  to  Sweden,  from 
Brittany  to  the  Russias. 

Hermia  bowed. 

As  for  himself,  he  was  Monsieur  Philidor,  the  light- 
ning portrait  artist,  of  Paris.  Likenesses,  two  francs — 
soldiers,  ten  sous. 

Signer  Fabiani  was  glad.  Madonna  mia!  It  was  not 
often  that  such  persons  met.  Would  the  visitors  not  join 
him  at  a  pitcher  of  Calvados  which  was  now  cooling  in 
the  stream? 

Markham  fastened  Clarissa's  halter  to  the  wheel  of  the 
roulotte  near  the  shaggy  horse,  and  joined  Hermia,  who 
was  already  at  her  ease  by  the  fire  and  playing  with  the 
bambino.  They  were  a  jolly  lot  and  made  a  fine  plea  for 
Markham's  philosophy  of  content.  Signor  Fabiani 
brought  the  pitcher  from  the  stream  and  Luigi  cups  from 
the  house-wagon,  and  there  they  all  sat,  as  thick  as 
thieves,  drinking  healths  and  wishing  one  another  a  pros- 
perous pilgrimage.  The  Fabiani  family  had  never  been 
to  Alen9on.  This  was  one  of  the  few  parts  of  the  world 

142 


THE   FABIANI   FAMILY 


into  which  their  fame  had  not  yet  spread.  All  the  more 
their  profit  and  glory!  Sacro  mento!  They  would  see 
what  they  would  see.  He,  Cleofonte  Fabiani,  would  snap 
heavy  chains  about  his  chest.  He  would  put  a  great 
stone  on  his  stomach,  and,  while  he  supported  himself  on 
his  feet  and  hands,  Luigi  would  break  the  stone  with  a 
sledge  hammer.  He,  Cleofonte  Fabiani,  would  lift  the 
girl  child  there  from  the  ground  with  one  hand — lift  her 
far  above  his  head,  tossing  her  to  Luigi,  who  would  catch 
her  upon  his  shoulders.  And  the  Signora  meanwhile 
would  juggle  with  a  piece  of  paper,  an  egg,  and  a  cannon- 
ball.  0  Jesu!  They  should  see! 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  Hermia.  A  Femme  Orches- 
tre!  In  all  his  travels  in  Italy  he  had  never  seen  one» 
The  signora  was  an  artista,  though.  That  was  clear. 
One  only  had  to  look  at  her  to  see  that.  He  would  lis- 
ten with  delight  to  her  music.  And  Signor  Philidor — • 
would  Signor  Philidor  do  his  portrait?  He  would 
pay 

He  straightened,  put  his  enormous  hand  upon  his  chest, 
elbow  out,  and  took  a  dramatic  pose  of  the  head.  He 
was  wonderful.  Markham  at  once  fetched  his  sketching 
materials  and  drew  him,  while  the  others  crowded  about, 
looking  over  the  shoulders  of  Monsieur  Philidor,  and 
watched  the  feat  accomplished.  Not  until  it  was  done 
was  Cleofonte  permitted  to  see.  It  would  spoil  the  pose. 

And  then!  Che  magnifico  pitture!  It  was  nothing 
short  of  a  miracle !  The  nose  perhaps  a  little  short — but 
Madre  Dio!  what  could  one  expect  in  twenty  minutest 
Did  not  the  mustache  need  a  little  smoothing?  Upon  the 
morning  of  the  performance  it  was  Cleofonte's  custom  to 
dress  it  with  pomatum.  The  cap,  the  earrings,  the  mole 
upon  his  cheek — everything  was  as  like  as  possible.  Si, 


Monsieur  Philidor  was  a  great  artist — a  very  great  art- 
ist. He,  Cleofonte  Fabiani,  said  so. 

But  when  Philidor  took  the  sketch  from  his  pad  and 
presented  it  to  Cleofonte  with  his  compliments,  the  ath- 
lete's delight  knew  no  bounds.  He  showed  his  teeth,  and 
stood  first  upon  one  foot  and  then  upon  the  other,  the 
sketch  held  before  him  by  the  very  tips  of  his  stubby 
fingers.  The  Signora,  relinquishing  the  bambino  to  Her- 
mia,  looked  over  his  shoulder,  more  pleased,  even,  than 
he.  After  that  nothing  would  do  but  that  the  visitors  must 
stay  for  supper.  Nothing  much — a  soup,  some  rye  bread, 
peas,  and  lettuce,  but,  if  they  would  condescend,  he, 
Fabiani,  would  be  highly  honored.  Hermia  accepted  with 
alacrity.  She  was  hungry  again.  Markham  smiled  and 
glanced  up  at  the  smiling  heavens,  unfastened  Clarissa's 
pack,  and  brought  out  a  roasted  chicken  cold,  a  loaf  of 
bread,  a  new  tin  pot,  and  a  bag  of  coffee,  which  he 
brought  to  the  fireside. 

The  Signora  insisted  on  preparing  the  meal,  so  Mark- 
ham  filled  his  pipe  and  helped  Hermia  to  amuse  the 
bambino. 

"You  will  pardon?"  said  Fabiani.  "But  this  is  the 
hour  of  practice,  while  the  supper  is  preparing.  Luigi, 
Stella,  we  will  go  on  if  you  please." 

The  child  rose,  rather  ruefully,  Hermia  thought,  and 
took  her  place  upon  the  mat,  where,  under  Luigi's  direc- 
tion, she  went  through  the  exercises  which  were  to  keep 
her  young  limbs  supple  for  the  approaching  perform- 
ances. It  was  the  familiar  thing — the  slow  bending  of  the 
back  until  the  palms  of  the  hands  touched  the  ground, 
in  which  position  the  child  walked  backward  and  forward, 
the  contortions  of  the  slender  body,  the  "split,"  the  put- 
ting of  the  legs  around  the  neck.  Hermia  had  seen  these 


THE   FABIANI   FAMILY 


acts  at  the  Varietes  and  at  Madison  Square  Garden  when 
the  circus  came,  but  had  seen  them  at  a  great  distance, 
under  a  blaze  of  light,  as  part  of  a  great  spectacle  in  a 
performance  which  went  so  smoothly  that  one  never  gave 
a  thought  to  the  difficulty  of  achievement.  There  in  the 
silent  shadows  of  the  wood,  bared  of  its  tinsel  and  music, 
the  rehearsal  took  on  a  different  color.  She  saw  the 
straining  muscles  of  the  child,  the  beads  of  perspiration 
which  stood  on  her  brow,  the  livid  face  with  its  tortured 
expression.  An  exclamation  of  pity  broke  from  her  lips. 

"Is  it  not  enough?"  she  asked.  Cleofonte  only  laughed 
through  his  cigarette  smoke.  It  seemed  like  a  great  deal, 
he  said.  She  had  not  had  her  practice  yesterday.  It 
would  be  still  easier  to-morrow.  And  then  he  signaled 
for  the  performance  to  be  repeated.  At  last  Hermia 
turned  to  the  bambino  and  would  look  no  more.  She  was 
tasting  life,  other  people's,  at  the  springs,  as  John  Mark- 
ham  had  promised,  and  it  was  not  sweet. 

There  was  a  brief  rest,  after  which  Luigi  and  Stella 
did  an  acrobatic  performance  of  tumbling  and  balancing 
in  which  at  the  end  Cleofonte  joined  with  a  masterful 
air,  punctuating  the  acts  with  cries  and  handclaps,  and 
at  the  end  of  each  act  they  all  bowed  and  kissed  the  tips 
of  their  fingers  right  and  left  to  the  imaginary  audience. 
The  rehearsal  ended  in  applause  from  the  visitors.  As 
for  the  Signora,  having  put  the  coffee  on  to  boil,  she 
was  now  nursing  the  bambino.  Cleofonte  came  up,  puffing 
and  blowing  and  tapping  his  chest.  "The  performance 
is  ended,"  he  exclaimed,  "in  tricks  with  Tomasso — that  is 
the  name  of  my  bear — and  in  great  feats  of  strength,  as 
I  have  told  you,  after  which  I  make  my  great  wrestling 
challenge,  to  throw  any  man  in  the  world  for  one  hun- 
dred francs.  Madre  de  Dio!  You  can  be  sure  that  when 

145 


they  see  Luigi  break  the  stone  upon  me — they  are  not 
zealous." 

The  baby  fed  and  fast  asleep,  it  was  put  to  bed  in  the 
wagon  and  they  all  sat  at  supper.  The  delight  Hermia 
had  taken  in  her  new  acquaintances — Fabiani's  bombast, 
Luigi's  grace,  and  the  Signora's  motherly  perquisites — 
had  lost  some  of  its  spontaneity  since  she  had  seen  the 
expression  on  the  face  of  the  child  Stella,  when  she  had 
gone  through  her  act  of  decarcasse.  It  haunted  her  like 
the  memory  of  a  bad  dream  and  brought  into  stronger 
contrast  her  own  girlhood  in  New  York,  with  its  nurses 
and  governesses  and  the  sheltered  life  she  had  led  under 
their  care  and  supervision. 

And  when  Stella,  her  slim  figure  wrapped  in  a  shabby 
cloak,  came  from  the  roulotte  and  joined  them  at  the 
fire,  flermia  motioned  her  to  the  place  beside  her.  When 
she  sat,  Hermia  put  an  arm  around  the  child  and  kissed 
her  softly  on  the  brow.  Stella  looked  up  at  her  timidly 
and  then  put  her  sinewy  brown  hand  in  Hermia's  softer 
ones  and  there  let  it  stay.  Hermia  had  made  a  friend. 

Cleofonte  looked  up  from  his  chicken  bone  and  shook 
his  huge  shoulders. 

"You  are  sorry,  Signorina?  Jesu  miol  So  am  I. 
But  what  would  you  have?  One  must  eat." 

"It  seems  a  pity,"  said  Hermia,  smiling. 

Fabiani  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  raised  his  brows 
to  the  sky,  with  the  resignation  of  the  fatalist. 

"It  is  life — voila  tout." 

The  soup  was  of  vegetables,  for  which  the  Fabiani 
family  had  not  paid,  but  it  was  none  the  less  nourishing 
on  that  account.  The  chicken,  a  luxury,  for  which  for 
many  days  the  palate  of  the  Fabiani  family  had  been 
innocent,  was  acclaimed  with  joy  and  dispatched  with 

146 


THE  FABIANI  FAMILY 


magic  haste.  The  cheese,  the  rye  bread,  and  the  salad 
were  beyond  cavil;  and  the  coffee — of  Monsieur  Du- 
chanel's  best — made  all  things  complete. 

The  dusk  had  fallen,  velvety  and  odorous,  and  the 
stars  came  peeping  shyly  forth.  Fabiani,  who  for  all  his 
braggadocio  did  not  lack  a  certain  magnificence,  had  in- 
sisted that  the  visitors  remain  in  camp  for  the  night. 
Madame  should  sleep  in  the  house-wagon  with  the  Sig- 
nora  Fabiani,  Stella  and  the  baby.  Were  there  not  two 
beds?  As  for  Monsieur  Philidor — he  knew  a  man  when 
he  saw  one.  The  night  was  heaven  sent.  Monsieur 
should  sleep  as  he  and  Luigi  slept — a  la  belle  etoile. 

Hermia's  cover  for  the  night  assured,  Markham  had 
accepted  the  invitation,  and  now,  all  care  banished  for  at 
least  twelve  hours,  they  sat  in  great  good  fellowship  be- 
fore the  fire,  listening  to  Cleofonte's  tales  of  the  road. 
They  forgave  him  much  for  his  good  heart  and  at  appro- 
priate moments  led  in  applause  of  his  prowess  and 
achievements.  When  the  conversation  lagged,  which  it  did 
when  Cleofonte  grew  weary,  Hermia  brought  forth  her 
orchestre  and  played  for  them;  first  the  tunes  she  had 
practiced  and  afterward,  as  she  gained  new  confidence  in 
their  appreciation,  "Santa  Lucia"  and  "Funiculi,  funi- 
cula,"  to  which  Cleofonte,  who  had  a  soul  for  concord, 
roared  a  fine  basso.  It  was  a  night  for  vagabonds,  care- 
4  free,  a  night  of  laughter,  of  mirth  and  of  song.  What 
did  it  matter  what  happened  on  the  morrow?  Here 
were  meat,  drink  and  good  company.  Could  any  mortal 
ask  for  more? 

After  a  time,  the  din  awakening  the  bambino,  the 
Signora  went  to  bed,  and  Hermia,  her  hand  in  Stella's, 
followed  to  the  wagon.  The  animals  fed  and  watered, 
Markham  settled  down  by  the  fire  with  his  newly  found 

147 


MADCAP 

friend  and  lit  a  pipe.  In  a  moment  Luigi  had  fallen  back 
on  his  blanket  and  was  asleep.  Markham  was  conscious 
that  Fabiani  still  talked,  but  he  had  already  learned  that 
it  was  not  necessary  to  make  replies,  and  so  he  sat,  nod- 
ding or  answering  in  monosyllables.  A  warm  breeze 
sighed  in  the  tree  tops,  the  rill  tinkled  nearby,  and  a 
night  bird  called  in  the  distance.  The  glow  of  the  fire 
painted  the  trunks  of  the  trees  which  rose  in  dim  majesty 
to  where  their  branches  held  eyrie  among  the  stars.  The 
chains  of  the  bear  still  clanked  as  he  rolled  to  and  fro 
until  a  gruff  "Be  silent,  thou!"  from  Cleofonte  brought 
quiet  in  that  direction.  After  a  while  even  Cleofonte 
grew  weary  of  his  own  voice,  his  head  fell  upon  his  breast, 
and  he  sank  prone  and  slept. 

Markham  sat  for  a  long  while,  his  back  against  the 
bole  of  a  tree,  pipe  in  mouth,  gazing  into  the  embers  of 
the  fire.  He  had  brought  the  tarpaulin  which  covered 
the  donkey's  pack,  and  Cleofonte  had  provided  him  with 
a  blanket,  but  he  seemed  to  have  no  desire  to  sleep.  The 
smile  at  his  lips  indicated  that  his  thoughts  were  pleas- 
ant ones.  Hermia  had  learned  something  to-day — would 
learn  something  more  to-morrow,  and  yet  she  had  not 
flinched  from  the  school  in  which  he  was  driving  her. 
If  he  had  thought  by  hardship  to  dissuade  her  from  her 
venture,  it  seemed  that  he  had  thus  far  missed  his  calcula- 
tions. Indeed,  each  new  experience  seemed  only  to  make 
her  relish  the  keener.  She  was  drinking  in  impressions 
avidly,  absorbing  the  new  life  as  a  sponge  absorbs  water, 
differing  from  this  only  in  the  particular  that  her  capac- 
ity for  retention  had  no  limitations.  He  smiled  because 
it  pleased  him  to  think  that  his  judgment  of  her  charac- 
ter had  not  been  at  fault.  Hers  was  a  brave  soul,  not 
easily  daunted  or  discouraged,  better  worthy  of  this 

148 


THE   FABIANI   FAMILY 


life  which  was  teaching  its  stoicism,  charity  and  self- 
abnegation  than  of  that  other  life  which  denied  by  self- 
sufficiency  their  very  existence — a  gallant  spirit  which 
for  once  soared  free  of  the  worldly,  venal  and  time-serv- 
ing. It  pleased  him  to  think  it  was  by  his  means  that  she 
had  been  brought  into  his  valley  of  contentment  and  that 
thus  far  she  had  found  it  pleasant.  Would  the  humor 
last? 

Fabiani  snored,  as  he  did  everything,  from  the  depths 
of  his  being,  and  Luigi,  in  the  shadows,  echoed  him  nobly. 
Markham  looked  toward  the  roulotte.  The  lantern  which 
had  burned  there  a  while  ago  had  been  extinguished. 
Strangely  enough,  although  it  was  his  custom  to  be  much 
alone,  Markham  wanted  company.  He  wished  at  least 
that  Hermia  had  bade  him  good  night.  It  was  curious 
how  quickly  one  fell  into  the  habit  of  gregariousness. 
He  and  Hermia  had  fared  together  but  for  one  day,  and 
yet  he  already  felt  a  sort  of  material  dependence  upon 
her  presence.  It  was  the  habit  of  interdependence,  of 
course — he  recognized  it,  the  same  habit  which  led  men 
and  women  in  droves  to  the  cities,  to  herd  in  the  back 
streets  of  the  slums  when  the  clean  vales  of  the  open 
country  awaited  them,  sweet  with  the  smells  of  shrub  and 
clover,  where  one  could  lie  at  one's  length  and  look  up  as 
one  should  at  the  stars,  lulled  by  the  song  of  the  stream 

or  the  whistle  of  the  south  wind  in  the His  head 

nodded  and  his  pipe  dropped  from  his  teeth.  Heigho !  he 
had  almost  been  asleep. 

He  rose  and  spread  his  tarpaulin  upon  the  ground.  As 
he  did  so  a  dry  twig  cracked  nearby,  a  dog  growled,  and 
presently  a  small  phantom  emerged  from  the  shadows. 
It  was  Hermia,  with  a  finger  laid  upon  her  lips  in  token 
of  silence. 

149 


MADCAP 

"Couldn't  you  sleep  ?"  he  whispered. 

"No.  It  was  a  pity  to  crowd  them,  so  when  Stella  got 
to  sleep  I  came  away." 

He  laid  a  log  upon  the  fire,  and  made  a  place  for  her 
beside  him. 

"It  was  very  nice  of  you,"  he  whispered.  "To  tell  the 
truth,  I  wanted  you." 

"Then  I'm  glad  I  came.  I  shall  sleep  here,  by  the  fire, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

"You're  not  afraid  of  the  damp?" 

"I  never  take  colds." 

She  smiled  at  the  prostrate  Cleofonte,  whose  stertor- 
ous breathing  shattered  the  silences. 

"He  is  so  much  in  earnest  about  everything,"  she 
laughed. 

"Aren't  you  tired?"  he  asked.  "You've  had  a  hard 
day." 

"Yes — a  little.     But  I  don't  feel  like  sleeping." 

"Nor  I — but  you'd  better  sleep,  you've  been  up  since 
dawn." 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  inquired. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "There  is  no  time  in  Vaga- 
bondia.  The  birds  have  been  asleep  a  long  while.  But 
if  you  must  know — it's  half-past  nine." 

"Only  that?"  in  surprise.  "We've  turned  time  back- 
ward, haven't  we  ?" 

"Or  lif e  forward,"  he  paused  and  then :  "You  are  still 
willing  to  go  on?"  he  asked. 

She  smiled  into  the  fire. 

"I  am,"  quietly.    "I'm  committed  irrevocably." 

"To  me?" 

"Oh,  no.  ,To  myself,  mon  ami.  You  are  merely  my 
recording  angel." 

150 


THE   FABIANI   FAMILY 


"A  vagabond  angel " 

"Or  an  angel  vagabond.   I  haven't  disappointed  you?" 

He  laughed  softly,  but  made  no  reply.  Of  a  truth,  she 
had  not. 

"I  was  just  thinking  what  a  pity  it  was  that  during 
all  these  years  your  gifts  have  been  so  prodigally  wasted. 
You  have,  I  think,  the  greatest  gift  of  all." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"The  talent  for  living." 

"Have  I?  Then  I've  learned  it  to-day.  I  have  lived 
to-day,  John,"  she  whispered.  "I  have  lived  every  hour 
of  it."  She  watched  the  yellow  rope  of  smoke  which  rose 
from  the  damp  log.  "The  talent  for  living!"  she  mused. 
"I  never  thought  of  that." 

"Yes,  it's  a  talent,  a  fine  art;  but  you've  got  to  have 
your  root  in  the  soil,  Hermia — unless  you're  an  orchid." 

"That's  it,  I  know.  But  I'm  not  an  orchid  any 
longer." 

Markham  rose  and  knocked  his  pipe  out. 

"No,"  he  smiled,  "you're  a  night-blooming  cereus — 
and  so  am  I.  You  must  remember  that  in  this  world  the 
darkness  was  made  for  sleep,  dawn  for  waking.  The  birds 
know  that.  So  does  Cleofonte.  Therefore,  you,  too, 
child,  shall  sleep — and  at  once." 

He  raised  the  tarpaulin,  scraped  the  ground  free  of 
twigs  and  stones,  and  then  laid  it  back  carefully,  fetch- 
ing his  overcoat  for  a  pillow. 

"Voila,  Mademoiselle,  your  sheets  have  been  airing  all 
day.  I  hope  you  will  find  the  mattress  to  your  liking." 

"But — where  will  you  sleep?" 

"Here ;  nearby — in  Cleofonte's  blanket." 

She  drew  her  long  coat  around  her. 
151 


MADCAP 

"You're  a  masterful  person,"  she  laughed.  "What 
would  happen  if  I  refused  to  obey?'* 

"An  immovable  object  would  encounter  an  irresistible 
force." 

She  smiled  and  stretched  herself  out.  He  bent  forward 
and  laid  the  loose  end  of  the  cover  over  her. 

"Good  night,  child.  As  a  reward  of  obedience,  you 
shall  dream  of  a  porcelain  bath  tub  and  a  tooth  brush." 

She  smiled,  and,  fishing  in  the  pocket  of  her  coat,  drew 
out  a  small  object  wrapped  in  paper. 

"It's  the  only  thing  I've  saved  from  the  wreck  of  my 
respectability — but  the  porcelain  bath  tub !  Don't  tempt 
me." 

He  turned  away  and  picked  up  Fabiani's  blanket. 

"Good  night,  Hermia,"  he  said. 

"Good  night." 

"Pleasant  dreams." 

"And  you — good  night." 

"Good  night." 


CHAPTER    XV 
DANGER 

IT  seemed  to  Hermia  that  she  had  hardly  closed  her 
eyes  before  she  opened  them  again  and  found  herself 
broadly  awake.  A  blue  light  was  filtering  softly 
through  the  tops  of  the  trees  and  the  birds  were  already 
calling.  She  pushed  her  cover  away  and  sat  up,  all  her 
senses  acutely  alive.  The  fire  was  out,  but  the  air  was 
not  chill.  She  glanced  at  Markham's  recumbent  figure,  at 
Cleofonte  and  Luigi,  and  then  stealthily  arose.  Tomasso* 
the  bear,  who  of  all  the  vagabond  company  had  alone  kept 
vigil,  eyed  her  whimsically  from  his  small  eyes  and  moved 
uneasily  in  his  chains. 

On  tiptoe  she  made  her  way  to  the  stream,  one  of  the 
dogs  following  her,  but  she  patted  him  on  the  head  and 
sent  him  back  to  the  wagon.  As  she  reached  the  depths, 
of  the  forest  she  relaxed  her  vigilance  and  went  rapidly 
down  the  stream,  finding  at  last  at  some  distance  a  quiet 
pool  in  the  deep  shadows.  Here  was  her  porcelain  tub. 
She  quickly  undressed  and  bathed,  her  teeth  chattering 
with  the  cold,  but  before  the  caravaners  were  awake  was 
back  in  camp,  gathering  wood  for  the  fire. 

Her  activities,  furtive  as  they  were,  awakened  Mark- 
ham,  who  sat  up,  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"Hello!"  he  said.     "Haven't  you  been  asleep?" 

For  reply  she  pointed  silently  through  the  tree  trunks 
to  the  rosy  East. 

He  got  to  his  feet,  shaking  himself,  rubbed  his  eyes. 
153 


MADCAP 


sleepily,  and  took  from  her  hand  the  dead  branch  which 
she  was  dragging  to  the  fire.  Between  them  they  awoke 
Cleofonte,  who  lumbered  to  his  feet  and  stared  about  with 
bleary  eyes. 

"Bon  giorno,  Signora — Signor.  I  have  slept — oh, 
what  sleep!  Luigi!  Up  with  you.  Diol  It  is  already 
day." 

Immediately  the  camp  was  in  commotion.  The  Sig- 
nora descended  from  the  wagon,  and  with  Hermia's  help 
prepared  the  breakfast  while  Stella  held  the  baby.  By 
sunrise  the  gray  horse  was  hitched  to  the  shafts  of  the 
wagon,  the  bear  hitched  to  its  tail  and  the  travelers  were 
on  their  way — the  contents  of  one's  valise  is  on  one's  back 
in  Vagabondia.  Cleofonte  had  invited  Hermia  to  sit  with 
him  upon  the  seat  of  the  wagon,  but  she  had  refused  and 
taken  her  place  by  Markham's  side  behind  Clarissa,  who, 
quite  peacefully,  followed  in  the  trail  of  Tomasso,  the 
bear. 

In  this  order  the  procession  moved  forward  into  the 
golden  wake  of  the  morning.  Hermia  was  in  a  high 
humor — joyous,  sparkling,  satirical  by  turns.  If  yester- 
day she  had  found  a  talent  for  living,  to-day  it  seemed  the 
genius  for  joy  had  gotten  into  her  veins.  Her  mood  was 
infectious,  and  Markham  found  himself  carried  along  on 
its  tide,  aware  that  she  was  drawing  him  by  impercepti- 
ble inches  from  his  shell,  accepting  his  aphorisms  in  one 
moment  that  she  might  the  more  readily  pick  them  to 
pieces  in  the  next.  He  couldn't  understand  her,  of  course. 
She  hadn't  intended  that  he  should,  and  this  made  the 
game  so  much  the  m$are  interesting  for  them  both.  He 
didn't  mind  her  tearing  his  dignity  to  tatters — and  this 
she  did  with  a  thoroughness  which  surprised  him,  but  he 
discarded  the  rags  of  it  with  an  excellent  grace,  meeting 

154 


DANGER 

her  humor  with  a  gayety  which  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 

"O  Philidor !"  she  cried.    "What  a  delusion  you  are !" 

"Me?    Why?" 

"Your  gravity,  your  dignity,  your  wise  saws  and 
maxims — your  hatred  of  women." 

"Oh,  I  say." 

"All  pose!"  she  continued  gaily.  "Politic  but  inef- 
fective. You  love  us  all  madly,  I  know.  Do  they  make 
love  to  you,  Philidor  ?" 

"Who?" 

"Your  beautiful  sitters." 

"No,"  he  growled.  "That's  not  what  they're  in  the 
studio  for." 

She  smiled  inscrutably. 

"Olga  did." 

He  gave  Clarissa  a  prod. 

"Olga?" 

"Yes.    She  told  me  so." 

"Curious  I  shouldn't  have  been  aware  of  it." 

"And  you  weren't  aware  of  it — er — in  my  perg " 

"Hermia !" 

"Or  of  the  face  powder  on  your  coat  lapel?" 

"No." 

"It  was  there,  you  know.  You  carried  it  quite  inno- 
cently into  the  glare  of  the  smoking-room.  Poor  Olga! 
And  she  is  always  so  careful  to  cover  her  trails !  But  I 
warned  her.  She  shall  not  trifle  with  your  young  affec- 
tions  " 

"You  warned  her?"  he  said,  with  a  startled  air. 

"Yes,  that  unless  she  intended  to  marry  you  she  must 
leave  you  alone." 

Markham  flicked  a  fly  from  the  donkey's  ear. 
155 


MADCAP 

"H — m,"  he  said,  and  relapsed  into  silence.  She 
glanced  at  him  sideways  before  she  went  on. 

"You  know  you're  not  really  angry  with  me,  Phili- 
dor.  You  couldn't  be.  It  isn't  my  fault  if  I  stumbled 
into  the  climacteric  of  your  interesting  romance.  I 
wouldn't  willingly  have  done  it  for  worlds.  But  I  couldn't 
help  seeing,  could  I?  And  Olga  was  so  self-possessed! 
Only  a  woman  terribly  disconcerted  could  be  quite  so  self- 
possessed  as  Olga  was.  And  then  the  next  day  you  went 
away.  Flight  is  confession,  Philidor." 

"H — m,"  said  Markham.  "If  there  are  any  missing 
details  that  you'd  like  me  to  supply,  don't  hesitate  to 
mention  them." 

"I  wouldn't — if  there  were  any." 

"And  you  believe " 

"That  you're  madly  in  love  with  the  most  dangerous 
woman  in  New  York,  and  that  only  time  and  distance  can 
salve  your  wounds  and  her  conscience." 

He  puffed  at  his  pipe  and  shrugged  a  shoulder. 

"That's  why  I  say  you're  a  fraud,  Philidor,"  she  went 
on,  "a  delusion — also  a  snare.  Your  beetling  brows,  your 
air  of  indifference,  your  intolerance  of  the  world,  they're 
the  defensive  armor  for  your  shrinking  susceptibilities — 
you  a  painter  of  beautiful  women!  Every  sitter  in  your 
studio  an  enemy  in  the  house — every  tube  of  paint  a  silent 
.  witness  of  your  frailty — every  brush  stroke  a  delicious 
pain — the  agony  of  it!" 

She  tweaked  Clarissa's  ear  and  whispered  into  its  tip. 
"It's  much  wiser  to  be  just  a  donkey,  isn't  it,  Clarissa?" 

Markham  grinned  a  little  sheepishly,  but  like  Clarissa 
refused  to  be  drawn  into  the  discussion.  Indeed,  his  pa- 
tience, like  that  of  their  beast  of  burden,  continued  to  be 
excellent.  Hermia's  impish  spirit  was  not  proof  against 

156 


DANGER 


such  imperturbable  good  humor,  and  at  last  she  subsided. 
Markham  walked  in  silence  for  some  moments,  speaking 
after  a  while  with  a  cool  assertiveness. 

"It's  rather  curious,  Hermia,  if  I'm  the  silly  senti- 
mental ass  you've  been  picturing  me,  that  you'd  care  to 
trust  yourself  to  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  my  shrink- 
ing susceptibilities." 

"But  you're  in  love  with  another  woman,"  she  said 
taking  to  cover  quickly. 

"I'm  in  love  with  all  other  women,"  he  laughed.  "All 
— that  is — except  yourself.  It  must  be  a  surprise  to  one 
who  counts  her  conquests  daily  to  discover  that,  of  all 
the  women  in  the  world,  you  are  the  only  female  my 
shrinking  susceptibilities  are  proof  against." 

Her  eyes  were  turned  on  him  in  wide  amazement,  eyes 
now  quite  violent  and  child-like. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,  Philidor.  It  is  curious  that 
I  never  thought  of  that.  It  isn't  very  flattering  to  me,  is 
it?" 

"No — especially  as  the  opportunities  for  indulgence 
in  my  favorite  pursuit  are  so  very  obvious." 

She  laughed  but  looked  away.  He  had  provided  a 
sauce  for  the  gander  which  made  him  seem  anything  but  a 
goose. 

"But,  of  course,  you — you  couldn't  take  advantage  of 
them — under  the  circumstances,"  she  remarked. 

He  shook  his  head,  doggedly  whimsical.  "One  never 
can  tell  just  how  long  one's  defensive  armor  may  hold 
out.  I'm  sure  my  brows  are  beetling  much  less  than 
usual.  In  fact,  this  morning  in  spite  of  severe  provoca- 
tion they  don't  seem  to  be  beetling  at  all.  And  as  for 
my  air  of  indifference — I  challenge  you  to  discover  it.  If 

157 


MADCAP 

these  are  forbidding  symptoms,  Hermia,  take  warning 
while  there's  time." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  in  the  least  alarmed,"  she  said  demurely. 

But  she  let  him  alone  after  that.  They  followed  slowly 
in  the  trail  of  the  roulotte.  Whether  because  of 
Clarissa's  habitual  drowsiness  or  their  own  interest  in 
other  matters,  the  shaggy  horse  had  gone  faster  than 
they,  and  when  presently  they  came  to  a  long  stretch  of 
straight  road  their  hosts  of  the  night  had  disappeared. 

"Do  you  know  where  we're  going?"  asked  Hermia 
then. 

"No,  I  don't.  I  never  know  where  I'm  going.  But 
I'm  sure  of  one  thing.  We  must  make  some  money  at 
once." 

"We'll  follow  Cleofonte  to  Alen£on  then,"  said  Hermia 
resolutely. 

So  Markham  prodded  the  donkey  and  they  moved  for- 
ward at  a  brisker  pace. 

They  had  met  few  people  upon  the  road  this  morning 
and  these,  as  on  the  day  before,  were  farmers  or  those 
who  worked  for  them,  both  men  and  women.  The  main 
line  of  traffic  from  Evreux,  they  had  learned,  lay  some 
miles  to  their  right,  and  it  was  over  this  road,  a  much 
harder  one,  that  the  motorists  went  if  southward  bound. 
It  was  therefore  with  some  surprise  that  they  heard  be- 
hind them  the  sound  of  a  motor  horn.  Markham  caught 
the  donkey's  bridle  and  drew  to  one  side,  the  car  came 
even  with  them,  running  slowly,  and  stopped,  its  engine 
humming. 

"This  is  the  way  to  Verneuil?"  asked  the  man  at  the 
wheel  in  French. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Markham  returning  their  salutation. 
"For  that's  the  way  we're  going." 

158 


DANGER 


Something  in  Markham' s  manner  and  speech  arrested 
the  driver's  eye,  which  passed  rapidly  to  Hermia,  who 
stood  silently  at  the  side  of  the  road,  suddenly  aware  of 
an  unusual  interest  in  her  appearance.  The  man  at  the 
wheel  turned  to  his  companion  and  said  something  in  a 
low  tone.  Markham  felt  a  warm  color  surge  upward  to 
his  brows. 

"Will  you  precede  us,  Monsieur,"  he  said  coolly,  "we 
are  already  late  upon  the  way." 

But  the  Frenchman  showed  no  intention  of  moving  at 
once  and,  ignoring  Markham,  questioned  Hermia  gaily. 

Mademoiselle  was  a  bohemienne.  Perhaps  she  would 
condescend  to  read  their  fortunes. 

Hermia  made  a  pretty  curtesy  and  laughed. 

"Unfortunately — Monsieur  is  mistaken,"  she  said 
easily.  "I  am  not  a  teller  of  fortunes.  But  what  does  it 
matter  since  Monsieur's  fortune  is  so  plainly  written 
upon  his  face." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"The  fortune  of  the  fortunate.  Bien  sur.  The  bon 
Dleu  cared  well  for  those  who  rode  in  automobiles." 

The  Frenchman  smiled  and  glanced  at  Markham,  who 
was  busying  himself  with  the  donkey's  pack. 

"Mademoiselle  is  very  blonde  for  a  tsigane,"  he  ven- 
tured again. 

"I  come  from  the  North  country,"  said  Hermia 
promptly. 

The  Frenchman's  eyes  which  had  never  left  her  face 
wore  a  curious  expression. 

"It  is  strange,"  he  said,  "but  somewhere  I  have  seen 
your  face  before." 

"That  is  where  I  am  accustomed  to  wear  it,  Mon- 
sieur," she  said  quickly. 

159 


MADCAP 

He  laughed. 

"I  can  only  say  that  it  becomes  your  costume  admir- 
ably." 

Markham  straightened,  frowning. 

"AUons,  Yvonne,"  he  muttered. 

But  Hermia  only  stood  smiling  and  curtesied  again. 

"Merci,  Monsieur.  You  pay  a  high  tribute  to  the 
skill  of  my  hands.  I  did  the  best  I  could — and  as  for  the 
matter  of  that,"  pertly,  "so  did  the  bon  Dieu." 

He  laughed  gaily.  Her  ready  tongue  delighted  him, 
but  his  face  sobered  as  he  glanced  at  Markham,  who  stood 
with  narrowed  gaze  fixed  on  the  road  ahead  of  them. 

"You  pass  through  Verneuil,  Mademoiselle?"  the  mo- 
torist went  on.  "Perhaps  Monsieur  your  companion 
would  not  object  if  we  carried  you  there." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Monsieur,  but  riding  in  such 
state  is  not  for  me." 

"Allans!  You  will  be  doing  us  the  favor  of  your  com- 
pany." 

"I  should  be  frightened  at  the  great  speed." 

"Oh,  I  will  run  very  slowly,  I  promise  you." 

She  seemed  to  hesitate  and  Markham's  head  slowly 
turned  toward  her,  a  wonder  growing  in  his  eyes.  Could 
she?  Did  she  really  think  of  going?  She  looked  at  the 
machine  and  then  at  Markham  and  Clarissa. 

"I  will  go — upon  one  condition,"  she  announced. 
"Mademoiselle  has  but  to  name  it." 
"And  that  is,  Monsieur,  that  you  will  also  carry  in 
your  automobile  Monsieur  Philidor  and  the  donkey." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  as  if  he  hadn't  believed 
his  own  ears,  while  his  companion  burst  into  wild 
laughter. 

160 


DANGER 


"Touclie,  mon  ami,"  he  cried,  clapping  the  chauffeur 
on  the  back.  "My  faith,  but  she  has  a  pretty  wit — the 
donkey  and  Monsieur  Philidor — par  exemple!"  And  he 
roared  with  laughter  again. 

The  man  at  the  wheel  flecked  his  cigarette  into  the 
bushes,  smiling  with  as  good  grace  as  he  could  command. 

"You  have  many  chaperons,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said. 
"It  is  too  bad.  I  shall  remember  your  beaux  yeux,  just 
the  same." 

He  waved  a  hand,  then,  opening  the  cutout,  drove  the 
machine  forward  and  in  a  moment  was  out  of  sight  in  a 
cloud  of  dust. 

Markham  grinned  at  the  departing  vehicle  and  then, 
turning,  met  Hermia's  gleaming  eyes. 

"O  mon  ami,  it  is  to  laugh!"  she  cried.  "Imagine 
Clarissa  seated  in  the  tonneau  of  that  machine  entering 
the  gates  of  Verneuil!  If  you  have  any  doubt  about 
getting  the  better  of  a  Frenchman  just  set  him  up  to 
ridicule." 

She  began  laughing  again,  her  eyes  on  Markham. 

"My  poor  Philidor!  Did  you  think  I  was  about  to 
desert  you — and  Clarissa?  You  were  really  quite  angry 
for  a  moment." 

"He  was  impertinent,"  growled  Markham. 

"To  Hermia — but  not  to  Yvonne." 

"You're  both." 

"Oh,  this  will  never  do  at  all !  You  mustn't  fly  at  the 
throat  of  every  man  who  takes  a  fancy  to  me." 

"I  don't — but  the  man — is  what  is  called  a  gentle- 
man. There's  a  difference."  And  while  she  hesitated  for 
a  reply. 

"What  did  he  mean  by  saying  that  he  had  seen  you 
before?"  he  asked. 

161 


MADCAP 

"Just  that.  He  had.  I  remembered  him  perfectly. 
He's  the  Marquis  de  Folligny." 

"Pierre  de  Folligny!"  in  amazement.  "Not  Olga's 
Pierre  de  Folligny?" 

"The  same.  I  knew  him  instantly.  I  met  him  in  Lon- 
don, at  an  evening  garden  party.  That  is  why  I  didn't 
want  you  to  make  any  trouble." 

"De  Folligny!  I  have  met  him.  He  used  to  wear  a 
beard." 

"Yes,  when  you  didn't." 

"I  see."  And  then  after  a  pause.  "I  thought  he  was 
one  of  that  Trouville  crowd." 

"He  is,  I  think.  How  lucky  I  hadn't  seen  him 
there !" 

They  walked  along  for  some  moments  in  silence, 
Markham  slowly  stuffing  tobacco  into  his  pipe,  his  gaze 
upon  the  ground. 

"Hermia,"  ke  said  briefly  at  last,  "you'll  have  to  be 
careful." 

"Well— aren't  I?"  reproachfully. 

"I'm  not  sure  it's  wise  of  us  to  pass  through  the 
larger  towns." 

"Why  not?" 

"You  might  be  recognized." 

"I'll  have  to  take  that  chance.  If  you  remove  the 
element  of  danger  you  take  away  half  the  charm  of  our 
pilgrimage." 

"I'd  rather  the  danger  were  mine — not  yours,"  he 
said  soberly. 

She  laughed  at  his  uneasiness.  "I've  absolved  you 
from  all  responsibility.  You  are  merely  my  CEdipus,  the 
vade  mecum  of  my  unsentimental  journey." 

But  he  didn't  laugh. 

162 


DANGER 

"I'll  warrant  you  De  Folligny  doesn't  think  that,"  he 
said. 

"Well — suppose  he  doesn't.  Are  you  and  I  responsi- 
ble for  the  unpleasant  cast  of  other  people's  thoughts? 
My  conscience  is  clear.  So  is  yours.  You  know  how  un- 
sentimental our  journey  is.  So  do  I.  Why,  Philidor, 
can't  you  see  ?  It  wouldn't  be  quite  right  if  it  wasn't  un- 
sentimental." 

"And  how  about  my — er — my  shrinking  susceptibili- 
ties?" he  asked. 

"Oh,  that !  You  are  losing  your  sense  of  humor,"  she 
said  promptly.  "The  worst  of  your  enemies  or  the  best 
of  your  friends  would  hardly  call  you  sentimental.  I 
could  not  feel  safer  on  that  score  if  I  were  under  the 
motherly  wing  of  Aunt  Harriett  Westfield !" 

She  was  a  bundle  of  contradictions  and  said  exactly 
what  came  into  her  head.  He  examined  her  again,  not 
sure  whether  it  were  better  to  be  annoyed  or  merely 
amused,  and  saw  again  the  wide  violet  gaze.  He  looked 
away  but  he  didn't  seem  quite  happy. 

"I  suppose  that  would  be  the  truth,"  he  said  slowly. 
"Unfortunately  our  vulgar  conventions  make  no  such  nice 
distinctions." 

"But  what  is  the  difference  if  we  make  them?" 

"None,  of  course.  But  I  would  much  prefer  it  if  we 
gave  Verneuil  a  wide  berth." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid.  Fate  is  always  kind  to  the  ut- 
terly irresponsible.  That's  their  compensation  for  being 
so.  What  does  it  matter  to-morrow  so  long  as  we  are 
happy  to-day?" 

His  expression  softened. 

"You  are  still  contented  then?" 

"Blissfully  so.     Don't  I  look  it?" 
163 


MADCAP 

"If  you  didn't,  I  wouldn't  dare  to  ask  you." 

By  ten  o'clock  Hermia  was  hungry  again  and  when 
they  came  to  a  small  village  she  vowed  that  without  food 
she  would  walk  no  more. 

"Very  well  then,"  said  Markham.  "We  must  earn  the 
right  to  it." 

They  found  a  small  auberge  before  which  Hermia  un- 
packed her  orchestra  and  played.  A  crowd  of  women 
and  children  soon  surrounded  them,  and  the  sounds  of  the 
drum  brought  the  curious  from  the  fields  and  more  dis- 
tant houses.  The  patronne  came  out  and  Philidor  offered 
to  do  her  portrait  for  ten  sous. 

They  were  lucky.  When  the  hat  was  passed  they 
found  the  total  returns  upon  their  venture,  including  the 
portrait,  were  one  franc  and  thirty  centimes.  This  paid 
for  their  share  of  the  ragout,  some  cheese,  bread  and  a 
liter  of  wine.  When  they  got  up  to  go,  such  was  the  im- 
mediate fame  of  Philidor's  portrait,  that  two  other  persons 
came  with  the  money  in  their  hands  to  sit  to  him.  But  he 
shook  his  head.  He  would  be  back  this  way,  perhaps — 
but  now — no — they  must  be  upon  their  way.  And  so 
amid  the  farewells  of  their  latest  friends,  the  cries  of 
children  and  the  barking  of  dogs  they  took  to  the  road 
again. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

MANET   CICATRIX 

OLGA  TCHERNY  sat  at  a  long  window  in  the  villa 
of  the  Duchesse  d'Orsay  and  looked  out  over  the 
sparkling  sands  upon  the  gleaming  sea.  Trou- 
ville  was  gay.  The  strand  was  flecked  with  the  bright 
colors  of  fashionable  pilgrims  who  sat  or  strolled  along 
the  margin  of  the  waves,  basking  in  the  warm  sun,  re- 
cuperating from  the  rigors  of  the  Parisian  spring.  White 
sails  moved  to  and  fro  upon  the  horizon  and  a  mild  air 
stirred  the  lace  curtains  in  Olga's  window,  which  undu- 
lated lightly,  their  borders  flapping  joyously  with  a 
frivolous  disregard  for  the  somber  mood  of  the  guest  of 
the  house. 

Olga's  gaze  was  afar,  quite  beyond  the  visible.  Her 
horizon  was  inward  and  limitless,  and  though  she  looked 
outward  she  saw  nothing.  Her  brows  were  tangled,  the 
scarlet  of  her  lips  was  drawn  in  a  thin  line  slightly  de- 
pressed at  the  outer  corners  and  the  toe  of  her  small  slip- 
per tapped  noiselessly  upon  the  rug.  It  was  nothing,  of 
course,  to  be  bored,  for  when  she  was  not  gay  she  was 
always  bored;  but  there  was  a  deeper  discontent  in  her 
whole  attitude  than  that  which  comes  from  mere  ennui, 
an  aggressive  discontent,  sentient  rather  than  passive,  a 
kind  of  feline  alertness  which  needed  only  an  immediate 
incentive  to  become  dangerous.  Upon  the  dressing-table 
beside  her  was  Hermia  Challoner's  telegram,  explaining 
her  failure  to  reach  Trouville ;  in  her  fingers  a  letter  from 

165 


MADCAP 


a  friend  in  Rouen  telling  her  of  John  Markham's  visit  to 
that  city  and  of  his  departure.  Both  the  telegram  and 
the  letter  were  much  crumpled,  showing  that  they  had  been 
taken  out  and  read  before.  There  seemed  no  doubt  about 
it  now.  John  Markham  had  received  her  letters  announc- 
ing her  arrival  in  Normandy  and  had  in  spite  of  them  fled 
from  Havre,  from  Rouen,  to  parts  unknown,  where 
neither  Olga's  rosily  tinted  notes  nor  Olga's  rosily  tinted 
person  could  reach  him.  She  had  hoped  that  Hermia's 
arrival  from  Paris  would  have  made  existence  at  Trou- 
ville  at  least  bearable,  but  Hermia's  change  of  mind  ex- 
plained by  the  belated  telegram  had  made  it  evident  that 
Fate  was  conspiring  to  her  discomfort  and  inconvenience. 
To  make  matters  the  worse  the  Duchesse  had  taken  upon 
herself  an  attack  of  the  gout  which  made  her  insupporta- 
ble, and  Pierre  de  Folligny,  Olga's  usual  refuge  in  hours 
like  these,  had  gone  off  for  a  week  of  shooting  at  the  Cha- 
teau of  a  cousin  of  the  Duchesse's,  the  Comte  de  Cahors. 
Hermia's  change  of  plans  had  disappointed  her;  for, 
jealous  as  she  was  of  the  years  between  them,  Hermia  al- 
ways added  a  definite  note  of  color  to  her  surroundings,  or 
a  leaven  of  madness — which  made  even  sanity  endurable. 
There  seemed  just  now  nothing  in  her  prospect  but  a 
dreary  waste  of  the  usual — the  beach,  the  inevitable  sea, 
the  Casino,  tea,  more  beach,  with  intervals  of  fretful 
piquet  with  the  Duchesse,  an  outlook  both  gloomy  and 
disheartening.  Indeed  it  had  been  some  weeks  now  since 
things  had  gone  quite  to  her  liking,  and  her  patience, 
never  proof  against  continued  disappointment,  was  al- 
most at  the  point  of  exhaustion.  The  letters  she  had 
written  John  Markham,  one  from  New  York  telling  of 
her  immediate  departure,  another  from  Paris  hoping  to 
see  him  at  her  hotel,  a  third  from  Trouville,  assuming  the 

166 


MANET   CICATEIX 


miscarriage  of  the  other  two — cool,  friendly  notes,  tinc- 
tured with  a  nonchalance  she  was  far  from  feeling,  had 
failed  of  their  purpose,  and  save  for  a  brief  letter  telling 
of  his  departure  from  Rouen,  he  had  not  given  the  slight- 
est evidence  of  his  appreciation  of  her  efforts  toward  a 
platonic  reconciliation.  She  had  not  despaired  of  him 
and  did  not  despair  of  him  now,  for  it  was  one  of  her 
maxims  that  a  clever  woman — a  woman  as  clever  as  she 
was — could  have  any  man  in  the  world  if  she  set  her  cap 
for  him. 

Her  self-esteem  was  at  stake.  She  consoled  herself 
with  the  thought  that  all  she  needed  was  opportunity, 
which  being  offered,  she  would  succeed  in  her  object,  by 
fair  means  if  she  could,  by  other  means  if  she  must.  She 
smiled  a  little  as  she  thought  how  easily  she  could  have 
conquered  him  had  she  chosen  to  be  less  scrupulous  in  the 
use  of  her  weapons.  She  could  have  won  him  at  "Wake 
Robin"  if  some  silly  Quixotism  hadn't  steeled  her  breast 
against  him — more  than  that,  she  knew  that  in  spite  of 
herself  she  would  have  won  him  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Her- 
mia.  Hcrmia  had  discovered  a  remarkable  faculty  for 
unconsciously  interfering  with  her  affairs.  Uncon- 
sciously? It  seemed  so — and  yet 

The  slipper  on  the  floor  tapped  more  rapidly  for  a 
moment  and  then  stopped.  Olga  rose,  her  lips  parting  in 
a  slow  smile.  It  was  curious  about  Hermia — there  were 
moments  when  Olga  had  caught  herself  wondering  whether 
Hermia  wasn't  more  than  casually  interested  in  her  elu- 
sive philosopher.  Hermia's  decision  to  follow  her  to 
Europe  had  been  made  with  a  suddenness  which  left  her 
motives  open  to  suspicion.  Olga  had  learned  from 
Georgette,  who  had  got  it  from  Titine,  that  notes  had 
passed  between  Hermia  and  Markham,  for  Georgette, 

167, 


MADCAP 

whatever  the  indifference  of  her  successes  as  a  hair- 
dresser, had  a  useful  skill  at  surreptitious  investigation. 
This  morning  Georgette  had  received  a  note  from  Titine 
who  was  in  Paris  where  she  had  been  left  by  her  mistress 
to  do  some  shopping  and  to  await  Hermia's  return.  Ti- 
tine had  expressed  bewilderment  at  the  disappearance  of 
her  mistress,  who  had  left  Paris  in  her  new  machine  with 
the  avowed  intention  of  reaching  Trouville  by  night. 
Georgette  had  imparted  this  information  to  Madame 
while  she  was  doing  her  hair  in  the  morning,  and  as  the 
hours  passed  Olga  found  her  mind  dwelling  more  insist- 
ently on  the  possible  reasons  for  Hermia's  change  of 
plans.  Where  was  she?  And  who  was  with  her?  Olga 
ran  rapidly  through  her  mental  list  of  Hermia's  acquaint- 
ances and  seemed  to  be  able  to  account  for  the  where- 
abouts or  engagements  of  all  those  who  might  have  been 
her  companions. 

What  if She  started  impatiently,  walked  across 

the  room  and  looked  out  into  the  Duchesse's  rose  garden. 
Really,  Markham's  importance  in  her  scheme  of  things 
was  getting  to  be  intolerable.  It  infuriated  her  that  this 
obsession  was  warping  her  judgment  to  the  point  of  im- 
agining impossibilities.  Hermia  and  Markham?  The 
idea  was  absurd.  And  yet  somehow  it  persisted.  She 
turned  on  her  heel  and  paced  the  floor  of  the  room  rap- 
idly two  or  three  times.  She  paused  for  a  moment  at  her 
dressing-table  and  then  with  a  quick  air  of  resolution  rang 
for  her  maid. 

"Georgette,"  she  announced,  "I  shall  have  no  need  of 
you  for  a  day  or  two.  I  would  like  you  to  go  to  Paris," 

Georgette  smiled  demurely,  concealing  her  delight  with 
difficulty.  To  invite  a  French  maid  to  go  to  Paris  is  like 
beckoning  her  within  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

168 


MANET   CICATRIX 


"Out,  Madame." 

"I  need  two  hats,  a  parasol  and  some  shoes.  You  are 
to  go  at  once." 

"Bien,  Madame." 

"You  know  what  I  desire  ?" 

"Oh,  oui,  parfaitement,  Madame — a  hat  for  the  green 
afternoon  robe  and  one  of  white " 

"And  a  parasol  of  the  same  color,  shoes — of  suede  with 
the  new  heel,  dancing  slippers  of  white  satin  and  a  pair 
of  pumps." 

"I  comprehend  perfectly." 

"You  are  to  return  here  to-morrow.  The  train  leaves 
in  an  hour.  That  is  all." 

Georgette  withdrew  to  the  door  but  as  she  was  about 
to  lay  her  hand  upon  the  knob  she  paused. 

"And,  Georgette,"  her  mistress  was  saying  lazily, 
"you  will  see  Titine,  will  you  not?" 

"If  I  have  the  time,  Madame " 

"If  you  should  see  Titine,  Georgette,  will  you  not  in- 
quire where  and  with  whom  Miss  Challoner  has  gone  auto- 
mobiling?" 

The  eyes  of  the  maid  showed  a  look  of  comprehension, 
quickly  veiled. 

"I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  do  so,  Madame." 

Olga  yawned  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  so  important  as  that — but,  Georgette, 
if  you  could — discreetly,  Georgette " 

"I  comprehend,  Madame." 

When  she  was  gone  Olga  threw  herself  on  a  couch 
upon  the  terrace  and  read  a  French  play  just  published. 
There  was  a  heroine  with  a  past  who  loved  quite  madly 
a  young  man  with  a  future  and  she  succeeded  in  killing 
his  love  for  her  by  the  simple  expedient  of  telling  him  the 

169 


MADCAP 

truth.  At  this  point  Olga  dropped  the  book  upon  the 
flagging  and  sat  up  abruptly,  her  face  set  in  rigid  lines. 

Silly  fool !  What  more  right  had  he  to  her  past  than 
she  had  to  his.  The  world  had  changed  since  that  had 
been  the  code  of  life.  That  code  was  a  relic  of  the  dark 
ages  when  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  grew  only  in  the  Gar- 
den of  Eden.  Now  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  grew  in  every 
man's  garden  and  in  every  woman's. 

She  marveled  that  a  dramatist  of  modern  France 
could  have  gone  back  into  the  past  for  such  a  theme.  It 
was  the  desire  to  seem  original,  of  course,  to  be  different 
from  other  writers — an  affectation  of  naivete,  quite  out  of 
keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the  hour — unintelligent  as  well 
as  uninteresting.  (You  see  Olga  didn't  believe  in  the 
double  standard.) 

She  got  up,  spurning  the  guilty  volume  with  her  foot 
and  walked  out  into  the  rose  garden.  But  their  odor 
made  her  unhappy  and  she  went  indoors.  She  began  now 
to  regret  that  she  had  not  gone  down  to  the  house  party 
of  Madeleine  de  Cahors  at  Alen9on.  At  least  Pierre  de 
Folligny  would  have  been  there — Chandler  Gushing,  and 
the  Renauds — a  jolly  crowd  of  people  among  whom  there 
was  never  time  to  think  of  one's  troubles — still  less  to 
brood  over  them  as  she  had  been  doing  to-day. 

The  return  of  her  maid  from  Paris  added  something 
to  the  sum  of  her  information.  Miss  Challoner  had  left 
her  hotel  at  ten  in  the  morning  in  her  new  machine  with 
an  intention  of  making  a  record  to  Trouville.  Titine  was 
to  follow  her  there  when  the  shopping  should  be  finished. 
In  the  meanwhile  a  telegram  had  come  dated  at  Passy, 
telling  of  the  change  in  plans,  with  orders  for  Titine  to 
remain  in  Paris  until  further  notice.  Several  days  had 
passed  and  Titine  still  waited  in  Miss  Challoner's  apart- 

170 


MANET   CICATRIX 


ment  at  the  hotel  which  was  costing,  so  Titine  related, 
three  hundred  francs  a  day.  It  was  all  quite  mystifying 
and  Titine  was  worried,  but  then  Mademoiselle  was  no 
longer  a  child  and,  of  course,  Titine  had  only  to  obey 
orders. 

Olga  listened  carelessly,  examining  Georgette's  pur- 
chases, and  when  the  maid  had  gone  she  sat  for  a  long 
time  in  her  chair  by  the  window  thinking. 

At  last  she  got  up  suddenly,  went  down  into  the  li- 
brary and  found  the  paper  booklet  of  the  Chemins  de 
Per  de  VEtat.  In  this  there  was  a  map  of  Normandy  and 
Brittany  and  after  a  long  search  she  found  the  name  she 
was  looking  for — Passy — south  from  Evreux  on  the  road 
to  Dreux — this  was  the  town  from  which  Hermia's  tele- 
gram to  Titine  had  been  sent. 

Olga's  long  polished  finger  nail  shuttled  back  and 
forth.  Here  was  Paris,  there  Rouen,  here  Evreux — there 
Alen9on.  Curious!  Hermia  with  her  machine  doing  in 
half  a  day  from  Paris  what  John  Markham  had  taken 
four  days  from  Rouen  to  do  afoot.  What  more  improb- 
able? And  yet  entirely  possible! 

She  took  the  livret  to  her  room  where  she  could  ex- 
amine it  at  her  ease  and  sent  to  the  garage  for  a  road 
map  which  had  been  left  in  the  car  of  the  Duchesse.  The 
livret  and  map  she  compared,  and  diligently  studied,  ar- 
riving, toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  at  a  sudden ' 
resolution. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

PERE     GUEGOU'S    ROSES 

HAD  Yvonne  needed  encouragement  in  her  career 
as  a  bread-winner  her  success  of  the  morning 
had  filled  her  with  confidence.  She  had  earned 
the  right  to  live  for  this  day  at  least,  and  looked  forward 
to  the  morrow  with  joyous  enthusiasm.  Philidor,  who 
still  confessed  to  the  possession  of  a  few  francs  of  their 
original  capital,  was  for  putting  up  at  a  small  hotel  or  inn 
and  paying  for  this  accommodation  out  of  principal. 
But  Yvonne  would  not  have  it  so.  The  sum  they  had 
earned  for  the  ragout  had  filled  her  with  pride  and  cu- 
pidity, had  developed  a  niggardly  desire  to  hoard  their 
sous  against  a  rainy  day.  They  had  earned  the  right  to 
lunch.  They  must  also  earn  the  right  to  dine  and  sleep ! 
Late  in  the  afternoon  they  came  to  a  small  village 
where  a  crowd  of  idlers  soon  surrounded  them.  Philidor 
unpacked  Clarissa  and  recited  in  a  loud  tone  the  now 
familiar  inventory  of  their  artistic  achievements  and 
Yvonne,  smiling,  donned  her  orchestra,  tuned  her  mando- 
lin and  played.  The  audience  jested  and  paid  her 
pretty  compliments,  and  joined  with  a  good  will  in  the  fa- 
miliar choruses.  And  for  his  part,  Philidor  made  a  light- 
ning sketch  of  an  ancien  who  stood  by,  leaning  upon  his 
stick,  which  brought  him  several  other  commissions  at 
ten  sous  the  portrait.  "Reduced  rates !"  he  cried.  "Bien 
entendu!"  For  to-morrow  at  Verneuil  would  the  people 

172 


PERE    GUEGOU'S   ROSES 

not  pay  him  two  francs  fifty?  This  final  argument  was 
convincing  to  their  frugal  souls,  and  he  sat  upon  a  chair 
until  sunset  making  Vallecy  immortal.  Philidor  was  too 
busy  even  to  pass  the  hat  for  the  musical  part  of  the  per- 
formance, so  Yvonne  did  it  herself,  returning  with  two 
francs,  all  in  coppers.  When  this  was  added  to  the  earn- 
ings of  Philidor,  they  found  that  in  just  two  hours  the 
princely  sum  of  six  francs  had  been  earned. 

"To-night,"  whispered  Philidor,  "you  shall  sleep  in  a 
chamber  once  occupied  by  the  Grand  Monarch  at  the 
very  least.  We  are  tasting  success,  Yvonne." 

"Yes — and  it's  good — but  I've  learned  a  healthy  scorn 
of  beds.  You,  of  course,  shall  rest  where  you  please,  but 
as  for  me — I've  an  ungovernable  desire  to  sleep  in  a  hay- 
mow." 

"But  hay-mows  are  not  for  those  who  can  earn  six 
francs  in  two  hours.  We  are  rich,"  he  cried,  "and  who 
knows  what  to-morrow  may  bring  besides !" 

They  compromised.  The  ancien  to  whom  Markham 
applied  in  this  difficulty  offered  them  bed  and  board  for 
the  small  sum  of  two  francs  each,  and  accordingly  they 
made  way  to  his  house.  The  ancien  was  a  person  of  some 
substance  in  the  community  as  they  soon  discovered,  for 
his  house,  the  last  one  at  the  end  of  the  street,  was  a  two 
storied  affair  and  boasted  of  a  wall  at  the  side  which 
inclosed  a  vegetable  patch  and  a  small  flower  garden  at 
the  back.  Mere  Guegou,  a  woman  younger  than  her  lord, 
looked  at  them  askance  until  her  good  man  exhibited  the 
portrait  by  Monsieur  Philidor,  when  she  burst  into  smiles 
and  hospitality. 

Oui,  bien  sur,  there  were  rooms".  This  was  no  au- 
berge,  that  was  understood,  but  the  house  was  very  large 
for  two  old  people.  Yes,  they  rented  the  spare  rooms  by 

173 


MADCAP 


the  month.     Just  now  they  were  fortunately  empty.     Did 
Monsieur  desire  two  rooms  or  one? 

"Two,"  said  Philidor  promptly.  "We  will  pay  of 
course." 

He  hesitated  and  Mere  Guegou  examined  them  with 
new  interest,  but  Yvonne,  with  great  presence  of  mind, 
flew  to  the  rescue. 

"We — we  are  not  married  yet,  Madame,"  she  said 
flushing  adorably.  "One  day — perhaps " 

"Soon — Madame,"  put  in  Philidor,  rising  to  the  situa- 
tion with  alacrity.  "We  shall  be  married  soon." 

Madame  Guegou  beamed  with  delight. 

"Tiens!  Cest  joli,  fa!  Guegou!"  she  called.  "We 
must  kill  a  chicken  and  cut  some  haricots  and  a  lettuce. 
They  shall  dine  well  in  Vallecy — these  two." 

Guegou  grinned  toothlessly  from  the  doorway  of  the 
shed  where  he  was  stabling  Clarissa,  and  then  hobbled  his 
way  up  to  the  garden. 

When  Mere  Guegou  went  into  the  kitchen  to  prepare 
the  dinner,  Yvonne  and  Philidor  walked  through  the  gar- 
den to  a  small  rustic  arbor  at  the  end  which  looked  down 
over  a  meadow  and  a  stream. 

"I  hope  the  bon  Dieu  will  forgive  me  that  fib,"  she 
laughed. 

"It  was  no  fib  at  all."  And  as  her  eyes  widened,  "You 
merely  said  that  we  hadn't  been  married  yet.  We  haven't, 
you  know,"  he  laughed. 

Her  look  passed  his  face  and  sought  the  saffron  heav- 
ens across  which  the  swallows  were  wheeling  high  above 
the  tree  tops. 

"Obviously,"  she  said  coolly.  "Nowadays  one  only 
marries  when  every  other  possibility  of  existence  is  ex- 
hausted." 

174 


PERE    GUEGOU'S   ROSES 

He  examined  her  gravely. 

"The  bon  Dieu  will  not  forgive  you  that,"  he  said 
slowly. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  don't  mean  what  you  say.  Whatever 
Hermia  was — Yvonne  at  least  is  honest.  She  knows  as  I 
do  that  she  will  not  marry  for  the  reasons  you  mention." 

She  accepted  his  reproof  smilingly  and  thrust  out  her 
hand — a  browner  hand  now,  a  ringless,  earnest  little 
hand — and  put  it  into  his. 

"You  are  right,  Philidor,  I  shall  marry — if  I  may — 
for  love.  Or — I  shall  not  marry  at  all." 

He  turned  his  palm  upward,  but  before  he  could  seize 
her  fingers  she  had  eluded  him. 

"But  I'm  not  ready  yet,  Philidor,"  she  laughed,  "and 
when  I  am  I  shall  not  seek  a  husband  on  the  highroads  of 
Vagabondia." 

Her  speech  puzzled  him  for  a  moment.  In  it  were 
mingled  craft  and  artlessness  with  a  touch  of  dignity  to 
make  it  unassailable.  But  in  a  moment  she  was  laugh- 
ing gaily.  "Whom  shall  it  be?  Cleofonte  is  married. 
Luigi?  He  has  a  temper " 

"Marry  me!    You  might  do  worse,"  he  said  suddenly. 

Her  face  changed  color  and  the  laughter  died  on  her 
lips. 

"You?    O  Philidor!" 

She  turned  away  from  him  and  looked  up  at  the  sky. 

"I — I  mean  it,"  he  repeated.  "I  think  you  had  bet- 
ter." 

He  sought  her  hand  and  she  trembled  under  his  touch. 

"Fate  has  thrown  us  together — twice.  Its  intention 
is  obvious.  Let  Fate  look  after  the  rest " 

"You,  Philidor.    Oh " 

175 


MADCAP 

She  buried  her  head  in  her  arms  still  quivering,  but  he 
only  held  her  hand  more  tightly. 

"Don't,  child.  I  did  not  mean  to  frighten  you.  I 
would  not  hurt  you  for  anything  in  the  world.  I  thought 
you  needed  me " 

At  that  she  straightened  quickly,  turned  a  flushed  face 
toward  him  and  he  saw  that  she  was  shaking,  not  with 
sobs,  but  with  merriment. 

"O  Philidor — such  a  wooing!  You'd  marry  me  be- 
cause I  need  you.  Was  ever  a  dependent  female  in  such 
a  position!"  And  she  began  laughing  again,  her  whole 
figure  shaking.  "I  need  you — forsooth!  How  do  you 
know  I  do?  Have  I  told  you  so?"  she  asked  scornfully. 

"You  need  me,"  he  repeated  doggedly. 

"And  that  is  why  I  should  marry  you?  You  who 
preach  the  gospel  of  sincerity  and  love  for  love's  sake !" 

"I — I  love  you,"  he  stammered. 

But  she  only  laughed  at  him  the  more. 

"You.  You  wear  your  passion  lightly.  Such  a  tem- 
pestuous wooing !  You  ask  me  to  marry  you  because  you 
fear  I  might  do  worse — because  you  believe  that  I'm  irre- 
sponsible, and  that  without  you  I'll  end  in  spiritual  beg- 
gary. I  appreciate  your  motives.  They're  large,  ingenu- 
ous and  heroic.  Thanks.  Love  is  not  a  matter  of  expe- 
diency or  marriage  a  search  for  a  guardian.  If  they  were, 
mon  ami,  I  should  have  long  ago  married  my  Trust  Com- 
pany. You — John  Markham !" 

He  sat  silent  under  her  mockery,  his  long  fingers 
clasped  over  his  knees,  his  gaze  upon  the  field  below 
them,  his  mind  recalling  unpleasantly  a  similar  incident 
in  his  unromantic  career.  Hermia  had  stopped  laughing, 
had  left  him  suddenly  and  was  now  picking  one  of  Pere 
Guegou's  yellow  roses.  Her  irony  had  cut  him  to  the 

176 


quick,  as  Olga's  had,  her  mockery  dulled  his  wits  and  ren- 
dered him  incapable  of  reply,  but  curiously  enough  he 
now  felt  neither  anger  nor  chagrin  at  her  contempt — • 
only  a  deep  dismay  that  he  had  spoken  the  words  that 
had  risen  unbidden  to  his  lips,  that  placed  in  jeopardy  the 
joy  of  their  fellowship  which  had  owed  its  very  existence 
to  the  free,  unsentimental  character  of  their  relations.  He 
knew  that,  however  awkwardly  he  had  expressed  it,  he  had 
spoken  the  truth.  He  loved  her,  had  loved  her  since 
Thimble  Island,  when  she  had  spoiled  his  foreground  by 
eliminating  every  detail  of  foreground  and  background 
by  becoming  both.  Since  then  to  him  she  had  always 
been  Joy,  Gayety,  Innocence,  Enchantment  and  he  adored 
her  in  secret. 

Since  they  had  met  in  France  he  had  guarded  the  se- 
cret carefully — often  by  an  air  of  indifference  which  fitted 
him  well,  a  relic  of  his  years  of  seclusion,  and  a  native  awk- 
wardness which  was  always  more  or  less  in  evidence  before 
women.  Whatever  his  secret  misgivings,  he  had  blessed 
the  opportunity  which  chance  and  her  own  wild  will  had 
thrown  in  his  way.  And  now — she  would  leave  him,  of 
course.  There  was  nothing  left  for  her  to  do. 

Slowly,  fearfully,  he  raised  his  eyes  until  she  came 
within  the  range  of  their  vision,  first  to  her  shoes,  then 
to  her  stockings,  her  skirt,  gaudy  jacket  and  at  last  met 
her  eyes,  which  were  smiling  at  him  saucily  over  the  rose- 
bud which  she  was  holding  to  her  lips.  But  he  only  sat 
glowering  stupidly  at  her. 

"O  Philidor!"  she  cried.  "You  look  just  as  you  did 
on  the  night  when  I  slipped  down  through  the  pergola." 

"Hermia!"  He  rose  and  approached  her.  "I  forbid 
you." 

177 


MADCAP 

She  retreated  slowly,  brandishing  the  blossom  beneath 
his  nose. 

"Without — er — the  face  powder !" 

"You  have  no  right  to  speak  of  that." 

"Oh,  haven't  I?    You've  just  given  it  to  me." 

"How?" 

"By  proving  to  me  that  I  wasn't  mistaken  in  you. 
O  Philidor,  did  you  propose  to  her,  too,  from  purely 
philanthropic " 

"Stop!"  He  seized  her  by  both  wrists  and  held  her 
straight  in  front  of  him,  while  he  looked  squarely  into  her 

eyes.    "You  shall  not  speak " 

"Or  was  it  because  she  'needed'  you,  Philidor,  as  I  do  ?" 

"There's  nothing  between  Olga  and  me,"  he  said  vio- 
lently. "There  never  was " 

"Face  powder,"  she  repeated. 

"Listen  to  me.  You  shall,"  fiercely.  "You've  got  to 
know  the  truth  now.  There's  no  other  woman  in  the 
world  but  you.  There  never  has  been  another.  There 
won't  be.  I  love  you,  child.  I  always  have — from  the 
first.  I  wanted  to  keep  it  from  you  because  I  didn't  want 
to  make  you  unhappy,  because  I  wanted  you  here — in 
Vagabondia.  When  the  chance  came  to  take  you,  I  wel- 
comed it,  though  I  knew  I  was  doing  you  a  wrong.  I 
wanted  to  meet  you  on  even  terms,  away  from  the  reek  of 
your  fashionable  set — to  see  the  woman  in  you  bud  and 
blossom  under  the  open  skies  away  from  the  hothouse 
plants  of  your  vicious  circle.  Even  there  at  'Wake 
Robin,'  I  wanted  to  tear  you  away  from  them.  They 
were  not  your  kind.  In  the  end  you  would  have  been  the 
same  as  they.  That  was  the  pity  of  it.  Perhaps  it  was 
pity  that  first  taught  me  how  much  you  were  to  me — how 
much  you  were  worth  saving  from  them — from  yourself. 

178 


PERE   GUEGOU'S   ROSES 

It  seemed  impossible.  I  was  nothing  to  you  then — less 
than  I  am  now — a  queer  sort  of  an  amphibious  beast  that 
had  left  its  more  familiar  element  and  taken  to  walks 
abroad  among  the  elect  of  the  earth.  But  I  loved  you 
then,  Hermia,  I  love  you  now,  and  I've  told  you  so.  I 
hadn't  meant  to,  but  I'm  not  sorry.  I'm  glad  that  you 
know  it — even  though  your  smiles  deride  me ;  even  though 
I  know  I've  spoiled  your  idyl  here  and  made  a  mockery 
of  my  own  Fool's  Paradise." 

Her  head  was  lowered  now  and  he  could  not  see  her 
eyes,  but  he  was  sure  they  must  be  still  laughing  at  him. 
When  he  had  finished  he  released  her  and  turned  away. 

"To-morrow  we  shall  be  in  Verneuil,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  will  give  you  money  to  buy  clothes  and  put  you  on  the 
train  for  Paris." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  by  the  sound  of  Pere 
Guegou's  chickens  flapping  to  their  roosting  bars.  The 
saffron  heavens  had  changed  to  purple,  and  in  the  spire 
of  the  village  campanile  a  bell  tolled  solemnly  the  strokes 
of  Philidor's  doom.  He  did  not  see  her  face.  He  had 
not  dared  to  look  at  it.  But  when  the  bell  stopped  ring- 
ing, Hermia's  voice  was  speaking  softly. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go,  Philidor?" 

Her  tone  still  mocked  and  he  did  not  turn  toward  her. 

"No — but  you  had  better,"  he  murmured. 

"Suppose  I  refused  to  go  to  Paris.  What  would  you 
do?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

"Could  you  treat  me  so?  Is  it  my  fault  that  you — 
you  fell  in  love  with  me?  I'm  not  responsible  for  that — 
am  I?  I  didn't  make  you  do  it,  did  I?  Would  you  have 
me  give  up  all  this  ?  Think  a  moment,  Philidor.  Wouldn't 
it  be  cruel  of  you — after  letting  me  be  what  I  am — after 

179 


MADCAP 

letting  me  know  what  I  can  be — after  giving  me  an  ego, 
an  individuality,  and  making  me  a  success  in  life — to  send 
me  back  to  Paris  to  be  a  mere  nonentity?  You  couldn't. 
I'll  not  go." 

Her  voice,  half  mocking,  half  tender,  rose  at  the  end  in 
a  note  of  stubbornness. 

"Of  course,  you  will  do  as  you  please,"  he  muttered. 
He  felt  rather  than  heard  her  coming  toward  him. 

"Don't  be  cross  with  me,"  she  pleaded.     "I — I  don't 
want  to  go  away — from  this — from  you,  Philidor." 

He  turned  quickly — but  she  thrust  out  her  hand  with 
a  frank  gesture  which  he  could  not  misinterpret. 

"You're  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world,"  she  said. 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his  and  held  it  a  moment. 

"That's  something,"  he  muttered.    "I'll  try  to  be— to 
deserve  your  faith  in  me." 

He  looked  so  woebegone  that  her  heart  went  out  to 
him,  but  she  only  laughed  gaily. 

"You'll  not  be  rid  of  me  so  easily,  Monsieur.    I'm  not 
going,  do  you  hear?" 

He  shrugged  and  smiled. 

"There !"   she  smiled.     "I  knew  you  wouldn't  refuse 
me.    You're  an  angel,  Philidor,  and  I  shall  reward  you." 

She  touched  Pere  Guegou's  blossom  to  her  lips,  then 
put  it  deftly  into  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

"It  is  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Rose,  mon  ami,  and  its 
motto  is  Sincere  et  Constanter.     You  will  remember  that 
motto,  Philidor,  and  however  mad,  however  inconsistent 
or  incomprehensible  I  may  be,  know  that  I  am  bound  to 
you,  apprenticed  to  learn  the  trade  of  living  and  that  not 
until  you  send  me  away  will  I  ever  leave  you." 
He  smiled  and  lifted  the  blossom  to  his  lips. 
"Friendship?"  he  asked. 

180 


PERE    GUEGOU'S   ROSES 

"Yes,  that  always — whatever  else " 

She  stopped  suddenly  as  his  eyes  eagerly  alight  sought 
her  face,  and  then  turning  quickly  she  fled  to  the  kitchen 
of  Mere  Guegou  and  upstairs  away  from  him. 

The  Guegou  family  made  good  its  promise,  and  they 
supped  upon  the  fat  of  Vallecy,  Mere  Guegou  waiting 
upon  them,  her  good  man  bringing  from  the  cellar  a  cob- 
webbed  bottle  which  dated  from  a  vintage  which  was  still 
spoken  of  in  the  valley  with  reverence.  A  brave  wine  it 
was,  such  as  one  remembers  in  after  days,  and  a  brave 
night  for  Philidor  whose  heart  was  singing. 

"Ah!  la  jeunesse!"  sighed  Madame  Guegou,  setting 
down  her  glass  when  the  healths  were  drunk.  "I,  too, 
Mademoiselle,  was  once  young." 

Yvonne  patted  her  cheek  gently. 

"Age  is  only  in  the  heart,  Madame,"  she  said. 

"Non,  ma  belle,"  cackled  Guegou  from  his  corner. 
"It's  in  the  joints." 

"Tais-toi,  Jules,"  scolded  his  wife.  "What  should 
lovers  care  about  thy  joints." 

"My  joints  are  my  joints,"  he  creaked  stubbornly. 
"When  one  has  ninety  years " 

"Ninety !"  cried  Yvonne.  "Monsieur  carries  his  years 
lightly.  I  should  not  have  said  that  he  had  over  sixty." 

"Say  no  more,  Mademoiselle,"  put  in  Mere  Guegou, 
"You  will  render  him  conceited." 

Indeed  it  seemed  that  the  old  man  had  already  forgot- 
ten his  joints,  for  he  poured  out  another  glass  of  wine 
and  was  pledging  Yvonne  with  toothless  gayety. 

"Vos  beaux  yeux,  Mademoiselle,"  he  creaked  gallantly, 
"and  to  your  good  fortune,  Monsieur  Philidor." 

"To  your  roses,  Monsieur  Guegou,"  replied  Philidor. 
"In  the  whole  of  the  Eure  et  Oise  there  are  not  such  roses. 

181 


MADCAP 

To  your  omelette,  Madame.  In  the  country  there  is  not 
such  another !" 

With  these  compliments  and  in  others  like  them  the 
minutes  passed  quickly.  Yvonne's  eyes  avoided  Philidor's, 
though  he  frequently  sought  them.  Nor  was  he  dismayed 
when,  in  response  to  Madame  Guegou's  interested  query  as 
to  when  they  would  marry,  Yvonne  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders indifferently  and  sighed. 

"Oh,  I  do  not  know,  Madame.  Often  I  think — never. 
One  marries  and  that  is  the  end  of  romance.  One  lover — 
pouf !  When  one  may  have  many." 

She  tossed  her  chin  in  the  direction  of  Philidor,  who 
looked  at  her  over  his  chicken  bone. 

"If  one  has  but  one  lover,"  she  went  on,  "he  must 
have  all  of  the  virtues  of  the  many  and  none  of  the  faults. 
He  must  sing  when  we  are  gay,  weep  when  we  are  sad, 
and  make  love  to  us  while  doing  either.  Enfin,  he  must 
be  what  no  man  is.  Voyez-vous?"  and  she  pointed  the 
finger  of  scorn  at  Philidor.  "He  eats  just  as  you  or  I." 

Madame  Guegou  laughed. 

"What  you  require  is  no  man  at  all.  Mademoiselle 
Yvonne,  but  a  saint." 

"Perhaps,"  she  finished,  yawning.  "But,  bien  entendu, 
I'm  in  no  hurry." 

When  the  dinner  was  finished,  Yvonne  helped  Mere 
Guegou  with  the  dishes,  and  when  that  was  done  went 
straightway  to  her  room,  with  no  other  word  for  Philidor 
than  a  "Bon  soir,"  and  a  nod  of  the  head. 

Philidor  sat  for  a  long  while  in  the  arbor  smoking  a 
pipe.  He  had  much  to  think  about.  One  by  one  the 
lights  went  out,  and  the  village  grew  quiet.  The  moon 
rose  over  the  forest  on  the  hilltop  beyond  the  stream,  and 
he  stretched  his  limbs  and  smiled  at  it  in  drowsy  content. 

182 


PERE    GUEGOU'S   ROSES 

He  was  so  wrapped  in  his  reflections  that  he  hardly  heard 
a  voice  which  came  to  him  over  the  yellow  roses. 

"Bonne  nuit,  Philidor." 

"Hermia !" 

"You're  to  go  to  bed — at  once." 

"I  couldn't.    Imagine  a  saint  going  to  bed." 

"You're  not  a  saint.    You're  a  prowler." 

"Let  me  prowl.     I'm  happy." 

"Why  should  you  be?" 

"I  love  you." 

The  shutter  above  him  closed  abruptly.  He  waited 
in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  looking  upward.  There  was 
no  sound. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

A   PHILOSOPHER   IN    A    QUANDARY 

LARISSA  carried  a  double  burden  the  next  day, 
S  ,  but  she  breasted  the  keen  morning  air  so  briskly 
that  whatever  her  own  thoughts  upon  the  sub- 
ject she  gave  no  sign  of  her  increasing  responsibilities. 
Yet  Cupid  sat  perched  upon  the  pack  which  Philidor  had 
been  at  such  pains  to  fasten.  Yvonne  alone  of  the  three 
was  out  of  humor  and  she  moved  along  silently,  suppress- 
ing the  joyous  mood  of  her  companion  by  answers  in 
monosyllables  and  a  forbidding  expression  which  defied 
conciliation.  As  nothing  seemed  to  please  her,  Philidor, 
too,  relapsed  into  silence  and  swinging  his  stick,  walked 
on  ahead,  whistling  gaily.  But  that  only  provoked  her 
mood  the  more,  and  when  she  overtook  him  she  made  him 
stop. 

His  silence  seemed  even  more  exasperating. 

"Oh,  if  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,"  she  said  petu- 
lantly at  last,  "I'd  much  rather  you  whistled." 

He  glanced  at  her  before  replying. 

"Your  motto  of  the  Golden  Rose  needs  amending," 
he  said. 

"What  would  you  add?" 

"Patience,"  he  laughed. 

"Clarissa  is  patient,"  she  sniffed.  "The  bon  Dieu  pre- 
serve me  from  the  patient  man." 

It  was  clear  that  she  meant  to  affront  him  and  she 
184. 


A  PHILOSOPHER  IN  A  QUANDARY 

succeeded  admirably,  for  Philidor  flushed  to  the  brows. 
Then  catching  her  in  his  arms  without  more  ado,  he  kissed 
her  full  on  the  lips. 

"I'm  no  more  patient  than  I  should  be,"  he  said. 

She  flung  away  from  him,  pale  and  red  by  turns, 
struggling  between  anger  and  incomprehension. 

"Oh!"  she  stammered  at  last.     "That  you  could!" 

She  brushed  the  back  of  her  hand  across  her  lips  and 
then  her  eyes  blazing  at  him,  turned  and  walked  rigidly 
on  her  way.  He  watched  her  a  moment,  his  anger  cooling 
quickly,  then  caught  the  bridle  of  Clarissa  who  had  taken 
advantage  of  this  interlude  to  browse  by  the  wayside. 
Cupid  had  fled ! 

Markham  drove  the  beast  before  him  and  strode  after, 
his  eyes  on  the  small  figure  which  had  almost  reached  the 
turn  in  the  road.  She  walked  with  a  quick  stride,  her 
head  turning  neither  to  the  left  nor  right,  but  he  knew 
that  her  gaze,  fixed  upon  the  road  before  her,  still  blazed 
with  resentment.  He  goaded  the  donkey  into  a  more 
rapid  pace,  but  try  as  he  might  he  could  not  come  up  with 
her,  and  so  giving  up  the  chase  he  let  Clarissa  choose  her 
own  gait,  lighted  a  pipe  to  compose  his  spirit  and  followed 
leisurely  in  the  steps  of  outraged  dignity. 

It  was  not  until  she  came  to  a  cross-roads  that  she 
stopped  and  waited  for  him.  When  he  arrived  with  Cla- 
rissa, already  chastened  and  even  prepared  for  humility, 
she  surprised  him  by  smiling  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

" Which  way,  Philidor?"  she  asked. 

He  had  already  seen  the  towers  of  Verneuil  from  the 
hilltops  behind  them  and  indicated. 

"I'm  sorry,  Hermia,"  he  said  softly.  "Will  you  for- 
give me?" 

185 


MADCAP 


She  shrugged.  "Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence.  I've  been 
kissed  before,"  she  said. 

His  gaze  was  lowered,  his  jaw  set. 

"You  provoked  it " 

"Did  I?  I  know  now  how  you  consider  me.  I  did  not 
believe  you  to  be  that  kind  of  a  man." 

"What  kind  of  a  man?" 

"The  man  of  promiscuous  gallantries." 

"I'm  not " 

She  shrugged  and  turned  away. 

"Your  record  is  against  you." 

He  found  no  reply  and  she  laughed  at  him. 

"When  I  wish  to  be  kissed,"  she  said  brazenly,  "I  usu- 
ally find  a  way  of  letting  men  know  it." 

"You  are  speaking  heresies,"  he  said  slowly.  "That 
is  not  true." 

"It  is  the  truth,  John  Markham.  But  I  did  not  choose 
jour  companionship  for  that  purpose." 

"No,  no,  don't!"  he  pleaded  contritely.  "I've  never 
thought  that  of  you.  We've  had  a  code  of  our  own, 
Hermia — all  our  own.  Last  night  you  made  me  happy. 
I  dreamed  of  you,  child,  that  you  cared  for  me  and  I— 

She  halted  suddenly,  her  slight  figure  barring  the 
way,  her  eyes  flashing  furiously. 

"We'll  have  no  more  of  that  nonsense,"  she  cried. 
"Do  you  hear?  When  I  ask  for  love — uncomplaining — 
unselfish,  I  know  where  to  seek  it."  She  reached  up  sud- 
denly, snatched  Pere  Guegou's  faded  blossom  from  his 
button-hole  and  throwing  it  in  the  road,  ground  it  under 
her  heel.  "The  Order  of  the  Golden  Rose  is  not  for  you, 
Monsieur  Philidor,"  she  finished.  And  before  he  was 
really  awake  to  the  full  extent  of  his  disaster  was  again 
on  her  way. 

186 


A  PHILOSOPHER  IN  A  QUANDARY 

They  entered  Verneuil  in  a  procession,  Hermia  in  the 
lead,  the  donkey  following,  and  Philidor,  now  thoroughly 
disillusioned,  bringing  up  the  rear.  He  was  thinking 
deeply,  his  gaze  on  the  graceful  lines  of  her  intolerant 
back,  aware  that  she  had  paid  him  in  full  for  his  temerity, 
and  wondering  in  an  aimless  way  how  soon  she  would  be 
taking  the  train  for  Paris.  He  had  done  what  he  could 
to  atone  but  some  instinct  warned  him  against  further 
contrition. 

His  judgment  was  excellent.  As  they  entered  the 
street  of  the  town  she  stopped  and  waited  for  him  to  join 
her. 

"You'll  unpack  my  orchestra  if  you  please,"  she  said 
acidly.  "I'm  going  through  the  town  alone." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  strap  at  which  she  was  already 
fingering,  his  manner  coolly  assertive. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly.  "You'll  not  go  alone.  You're 
in  my  charge.  Where  you  go,  I  go — unless  of  course" — 
and  he  pointed  toward  the  railroad  which  passed  nearby, 
"I  put  you  on  the  train  for  Paris." 

She  had  not  expected  that.  She  was  powerless  and 
knew  it.  Wide-eyed  she  sought  his  face,  but  he  met  her 
look  squarely. 

"I  mean  it,"  he  said  evenly.  "You  shall  do  what  I 
say." 

Her  gaze  flared  angrily  and  then  fell. 

"Oh !"  she  stammered.    "You  would  dare!'* 

"Your  remedy — is  yonder,"  he  said  firmly,  pointing  to 
the  Gare. 

Some  loiterers,  a  few  children  and  a  stray  dog  had 
gathered  about  them.  The  dog,  a  puppy,  barked  at 
Clarissa  and  was  promptly  kicked  for  its  precocity.  The 
crowd  laughed.  This  relaxed  the  tension  of  the  situation. 

187 


MADCAP 

"Come,"  said  Markham,  his  hand  on  the  donkey's 
halter.  "This  will  never  do.  We  will  go  on,  please." 

Hermia  stood  her  ground  a  moment  defiantly,  her 
arms  akimbo  and  then  dumbly  followed. 

Markham  led  the  way  toward  the  market-place,  where 
the  crowds  were  gathered.  The  glance  he  stole  at  Hermia 
revealed  a  set  expression,  a  cheek  highly  flushed  and  a 
lambent  eye. 

"If  you  would  prefer  not  to  perform  to-day  I  will  get 
you  a  room  at  an  inn,"  he  said  gently. 

But  she  raised  her  chin  and  looked  at  him  with  the 
narrow  eye  of  contempt. 

"You  will  get  me  nothing,"  she  replied. 

"Nothing  but  food,"  he  replied.  "We  are  now  going 
to  eat." 

If  scorn  could  kill,  Philidor  must  have  died  at  once. 
But  she  followed  him  to  the  Hotel  Dieu,  and  nibbled  si- 
lently at  what  he  had  ordered.  His  efforts  to  relieve  the 
tension  were  unavailing  so  he  gave  it  up  and  at  last  led 
the  way  to  the  market-place  where  Clarissa  was  unpacked 
and  Yvonne  donned  her  orchestra. 

Business  was  good,  though  Philidor  did  the  lion's 
share  of  it.  The  sound  of  Yvonne's  drum  speedily  drew  a 
crowd  and  Philidor  got  out  his  sketching  block  and  went 
to  work  on  the  nearest  onlooker,  a  peasant  girl  of  eight- 
een, in  Norman  headgear.  She  demurred  at  first,  but  she 
was  pretty  and  knew  it,  and  Philidor's  tongue  was  per^ 
suasive,  his  nervous  crayon  eloquent.  He  was  at  his  best 
here,  and  when  the  sketch  was  done  he  gave  it  to  her  with 
his  compliments.  The  girl's  lover,  a  gardener  from  an 
estate  nearby,  showed  it  jubilantly  from  group  to  group, 
And  Philidor's  fame  was  again  established. 

It  could  not  in  any  truth  be  said  that  Yvonne's  or- 
188 


VA  PHILOSOPHER  IN  A  QUANDARY 

chestra  was  a  symphonic  success,  for  she  jangled  her  man- 
dolin horribly  out  of  tune,  and  blew  her  mouth-organ 
atrociously.  But  whatever  her  performance  lacked  in 
artistry  it  made  up  in  noise,  her  drum  and  cymbals  awak- 
ing such  a  din  that  existence  was  unbearable  within  ten 
feet  of  them.  Philidor  went  on  with  his  portraits  and 
was  so  absorbed  that  for  at  least  twenty  minutes  he 
neither  saw  nor  heard  what  was  going  on  about  him.  He 
had  been  aware  of  his  companion's  execrable  performance 
a  while  ago,  and  now  realized  with  a  suddenness  which 
surprised  him  that  she  played  no  more.  He  rose  and 
peered  about  over  the  shoulders  of  his  rustic  admirers. 
Somebody  directed  his  glance.  There  she  was  across  the 
square,  her  orchestra  dangling,  talking  to  a  gentleman. 
It  was  true;  and  plainly  to  be  seen  that  the  gentleman 
was  Pierre  de  Folligny.  Philidor  watched  them  uncer- 
tainly. A  joke  passed,  they  both  laughed  and  the 
Frenchman  indicated  his  quivering  machine  hard  by. 
Then  it  was  that  Philidor  went  forth  across  the  square, 
his  brow  a  thundercloud.  The  girl  cast  a  glance  over  her 
shoulder  in  his  direction  and  then  followed  the  French- 
man to  his  machine.  Philidor's  long  stride  made  the  dis- 
tance quickly,  and  before  the  pair  were  seated,  he  stood 
beside  them. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Yvonne?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Who  knows?"  she  laughed.     "To  Paris,  perhaps." 

"Mademoiselle  has  consented  to  ride  with  me,"  said  De 
Folligny  coolly.  "I  trust  we  do  not  interfere  with  your 
plans." 

Philidor's  eyes  sought  only  hers. 

"You  insist  ?"  he  asked  of  her. 

She  laughed  at  him. 

"Naturellement. " 

189 


MADCAP 

The  car  had  begun  to  move. 
"One  moment,  Monsieur- 


De  Folligny  only  smiled,  put  on  the  power  and  in  a 
moment  was  speeding  down  the  cobbled  street,  leaving 
Philidor  staring  after  them,  his  head  full  of  wild 
thoughts  of  pursuit,  the  most  conspicuous  dolt  in  all 
Verneuil. 

But  he  did  not  care.  He  thrust  his  bony  fists  deep  in 
his  pockets  and  slowly  made  his  way  through  the  piles  of 
vegetables  back  to  Clarissa.  He  bundled  his  materials 
into  his  knapsack  and  quickly  disappeared  from  the  in- 
terested gaze  of  the  bystanders,  who  had  not  scrupled  eo 
offer  him  both  questions  and  advice. 

He  was  quite  helpless  with  the  alternatives  of  sitting 
at  the  Hotel  Dieu  to  await  developments  or  of  hiring  a 
car  at  the  garage  nearby  and  going  on  a  wild-goose  chase 
which,  whether  successful  or  unsuccessful,  must  end  un- 
profitably.  Hermia  had  paid  him  in  strange  coin.  Could 
she  afford  it?  He  knew  something  of  Pierre  de  Folligny. 
What  did  Hermia  know?  She  was  mad,  of  course.  He 
had  thought  her  mad  before  when  she  had  volunteered 

with  him  for  Vagabondia,  but  now What  could  he 

think  of  her  now?  There  was  a  difference. 

Even  his  pipe  failed  to  advise  him.    He  knocked  it  out 

and  wandered  forth,  his  footsteps  taking  him  down  the 

!  street  through  which  the  pair  had  fled.     He  followed  it  to 

•(•its  end,  emerging  presently  on  a  country  road  which  took 

vthe  line  of  the  railroad  to  the  South.     He  did  not  know 

where  he  was  going,  and  did  not  much  care  so  long  as  he 

was  doing  something.     His  stride  lengthened,  his  jaw  was 

set,  his  gaze  riveted  on  the  spot  where  his  road  entered 

the  forest.     It  would  have  fared  ill  with  De  Folligny  if 

they  had  met  at  that  moment.     Persons  who  met  him  on 

190 


<A  PHILOSOPHER  IN  A  QUANDARY 

the  road  turned  to  look  at  him  and  passed  on.  Lunatics 
were  scarce  along  the  Avre. 

After  a  while  his  fury  passed  and  he  brought  what 
reason  he  still  possessed  to  bear  upon  his  topic.  It  was 
Hermia,  not  De  Folligny  who  was  to  blame — Hermia,  the 
mad,  the  irrepressible,  whom  he  had  roused  from  her  idyl 
in  their  happy  valley  and  driven  forth,  tete  baissee,  upon 
this  fool's  errand — Hermia  the  tender,  the  tempestuous, 
the  gentle,  the  precipitate,  because  of  whose  wild  pranks 
he,  John  Markham,  Dean  of  the  College  of  Celibates,  now 
stalked  the  highroads  of  France,  the  victim  of  his  own 
philosophy. 

Fool  that  he  was !  Thrice  a  fool  for  having  stumbled 
to  his  fate,  open-eyed.  Last  night  she  had  laughed  at 
him.  To-day  she  mocked  at  him  still — with  De  Folligny. 

His  responsibilities  oppressed  him.  He  must  find  her 
and  bring  this  mad  pilgrimage  to  an  end.  To-morrow — 
to-night,  perhaps  he  would  put  her  on  a  train  which  would 
take  her  back  to  the, people  of  her  own  kind,  or  he  would 
go  upon  his  way — his  own  way,  which  he  was  now  sure 
could  no  longer  be  hers. 

Emerging  from  the  forest  the  road  took  a  sharp  turn 
away  from  the  railroad  tracks  down  hill  and  across  a 
level  plain.  From  the  slight  eminence  upon  which  he 
stood,  his  road  lay  straight  as  a  string  before  him,  its 
length  visible  for  almost  a  mile.  Near  its  end  he  saw  a 
dark  object  at  the  side  of  the  road.  A  wagon?  Or  was  it 
a  motor?  This  was  the  way  De  Folligny  had  come,  for 
there  had  been  no  turnings.  He  hurried  on,  his  gaze  on 
the  distant  object  which  grew  nearer  at  every  step.  He 
was  sure  of  one  thing  now,  that  the  object  had  not  moved 
— of  two  things — that  it  was  not  a  motor.  And  yet  there 
was  something  familiar  about  it.  A  wagon  it  was — a 

191 


MADCAP 

wagon  with  a  roof,  its  end  showing  a  window  which  caught 
the  reflection  of  the  sky — a  house  wagon,  and  near  it, 
phantom-like  against  the  dim  foliage,  a  shaggy  gray 
horse;  to  the  right,  the  white  smoke  of  a  newly  made 
fire  rising  among  the  trees.  It  was  the  roulotte  of  the 
Fabiani  family  and  there  in  the  woods  was  his  friend  of 
a  night,  Cleofonte,  the  incomparable. 

He  had  almost  made  out  the  bulk  of  figures  near  the 
fire  when  from  the  hedge  beside  the  road  there  came 
sounds  of  tinkling  bells  and  a  small  wraith  in  red  and  blue 
rose  like  a  Phoenix  from  the  dust  and  confronted  him 
with  outstretched  hands. 

"You  are  late,  Philidor.  I've  been  waiting  at  least 
half  an  hour." 

"You've  been — what?" 

"Waiting  for  you,"  coolly.  "What  kept  you  so 
long?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  sure  that  one  of  them 
must  have  lost  his  senses. 

"Where  is  De  Folligny?"  he  growled. 

"How  should  I  know?" 

He  took  her  by  the  elbows  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"He  has  gone  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  happened?" 

"N-nothing." 

She  met  his  eyes  with  a  clear  gaze — a  whimsical  smile 
twisting  her  lips. 

"You  know,  Philidor,"  she  said  quietly,  "I  don't  like 
to  be  kissed  unless — unless " 

She  stopped  and  slowly  disengaged  her  elbows  from 
his  grasp,  "Unless  I  want  to  be  kissed." 

He  searched  her  face  anxiously. 

192 


"He — he  kissed  you?"  he  snapped  savagely. 

"Almost " 

"Did  he?" 

"No."  She  smiled  up  at  him.  "You  see,"  amusedly, 
"every  time  he  put  his  arm  around  me  the  drum  and 
cymbals  played.  It  quite  disconcerted  him."  But  Phili- 
dor  found  no  amusement  in  her  recital. 

"How  do  you  happen  to  be  here?" 

His  tone  was  still  querulous.  She  looked  at  him  calm- 
ly and  after  a  pause  she  answered  evenly. 

"We  were  driving  slowly.  I  saw  the  roulotte  and 
recognized  it  at  once.  So  I  switched  off  the  magneto  of 
his  machine — I  don't  know  what  he  thought — but  he 
looked  at  me  as  though  he  believed  I  had  gone  suddenly 
mad,  and,  while  he  still  wondered,  I  jumped." 

"And  then?" 

Hermia  laughed  softly.  "He  swore  at  me.  'You 
little  devil,'  he  cried,  'how  did  you  happen  to  do  that?' 

"  'My  elbow  slipped,'  said  I,  from  the  roadside. 

"  'Your  elbow !    Ma  foi,  you  have  educated  elbows !' 

"  'That's  true,  I  should  not  play  the  cymbals  else.' 

"  'Cymbals !     Who  taught  you  to  run  a  machine  ?' 

"  'The  bon  Dieu!'  said  I,  and  fled  to  the  Signora." 

She  laughed  gaily.  "Oh,  he  didn't  follow.  I  think 
he  understood  that  there  had  been  a  mistake.  He  watched 
me  a  moment  and  then  got  out,  cranked  his  car  thought- 
fully, and  went  on  in  a  cloud  of  dust And  that — 

thats'  all,"  she  finished. 

Markham  looked  down  the  road,  his  narrowed  eyes 
slowly  relaxing  and  a  smile  growing  under  his  small 
mustache. 

"O  Hermia, — what  a  frolic  you've  had !  I  feared " 

He  paused. 

193 


MADCAP 

"What?" 

"Anything — everything.     You  had  no  right " 

She  raised  a  warning  finger. 

"We'll  speak  of  it  no  more,  Philidor,"  she  said  quietly. 

His  anger  flared  and  died ;  for  her  eyes  were  soft  with 
friendship,  gentleness  and  compassion,  and  her  bent  head 
begged  forgiveness.  She  had  been  unreasonable  and 
would  make  him  unhappy  no  more.  All  those  things  he 
read.  It  was  quite  wonderful. 

She  led  him  through  the  bushes  to  the  fire  where  the 
Signora  and  Stella  made  him  welcome  with  their  kindest 
smiles  and  the  bambino  cried  lustily.  Cleof onte  and  Luigi 
presently  emerged  from  the  forest  where  they  had  gone  in 
search  of  wood  and  deposited  their  loads  by  the  fireside. 
They  all  made  merry  as  befitted  good  comrades  of  the 
road,  once  more  reunited,  and  when  Philidor  suggested 
going  back  to  Verneuil  for  the  night  the  jovial  strong 
man  would  not  have  it,  nor  would  Yvonne.  So  Luigi  was 
dispatched  on  the  gray  horse  to  the  town  for  Clarissa  and 
the  pack,  but  not  until  Philidor  had  privily  given  him 
some  instructions  and  a  piece  of  money  which  opened  his 
sleepy  eyes  a  trifle  wider  and  increased  the  dimension  of 
his  smile. 

When  he  returned  later  with  both  animals  laden  with 
packages  deep  was  the  joy  and  great  the  astonishment  of 
the  caravaners.  With  an  air  of  mystery  Luigi  proudly 
laid  his  packages  out  in  a  row  beside  the  fire  and  Yvonne 
opened  them  one  by  one,  disclosing  a  chicken,  a  ham,  three 
loaves  of  bread,  butter,  two  cheeses,  some  marmalade,  a 
quart  of  milk,  a  pound  of  coffee,  a  pound  of  tea,  a  tin  of 
crackers  and  two  bottles  of  wine. 

"Jesu  mio!"  said  Cleofonte,  his  eyes  starting  from  his 
head.  "It  is  beyond  belief." 

194 


A  PHILOSOPHER  IN  A  QUANDARY 

"To-night  you  dine  with  me — with  us,"  laughed  Phili- 
dor  with  a  glance  at  Yvonne.  They  all  took  a  hand  in 
preparing  the  meal,  which  was  to  be  magnificent.  Luigi 
built  another  fire  for  the  chicken  which  was  to  be  roasted 
on  a  spit,  and  the  coffee  pot  was  soon  simmering. 

Yvonne  made  toast,  Philidor  cut  the  ham,  the  Signora 
made  vegetable  soup,  and  Stella  hurried  back  and  forth 
from  the  wagon,  bringing  the  slender  supply  of  dishes 
and  utensils. 

When  all  was  ready  they  sat  and  ate  as  though  they 
had  never  eaten  before  and  were  never  to  eat  again.  The 
wine  was  passed  and  drunk  by  turns  from  two  broken 
tumblers  and  two  tin  cups,  the  only  vessels  available  for 
both  the  wine  and  coffee,  and  healths  were  merrily 
pledged.  Cleofonte  swore  an  undying  friendship  for  Phili- 
dor. Were  they  not  both  great  artists — of  different 
metiers,  but  each  great  in  his  own  profession?  The  world 
should  know  it.  He,  Cleofonte,  would  proclaim  it.  And 
the  Signora  Fabiani — she  and  the  Signora  were  already 
sisters.  They  must  all  travel  together.  There  was  enough 
food  for  an  army  to  eat.  It  would  last  a  week  at  the 
very  least. 

Philidor  was  content.  And  when  the  others  had  cleared 
away  what  remained  of  their  feast  and  brought  out  the 
blankets,  Yvonne  sat  for  a  long  while  by  the  fire  with 
Philidor,  who  smoked  and  talked  of  many  things.  But  the 
train  to  Paris  no  longer  interested  him. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

MOUNTEBANKS 

THEY  reached  Alen9on  at  the  end  of  the  third  day. 
Soon  after  leaving  Verneuil  their  road  mounted  a 
rocky  country  of  robust  wooded  hills,  cleft  by 
gorges  and  defiles,  the  uplands  of  the  Perche  and  Nor- 
mandie,  from  the  crests  of  which  the  pilgrims  had  a  gen- 
erous view  of  the  whole  of  the  Orne.  On  the  first  day  the 
company  had  dined  at  St.  Maurice  and  supped  and  slept 
near  Tourouvre,  in  the  heart  of  a  primeval  forest  of  oaks 
and  pines.  Philidor  and  Yvonne  had  followed  close  upon 
the  steps  of  Tomasso  the  bear,  keeping,  so  to  speak,  under 
the  shadow  of  Cleofonte's  protecting  wing.  There  was 
a  difference  in  their  relations,  indefinable  yet  quite  ob- 
vious to  them  both,  a  reserve  on  Philidor's  part,  marked 
by  consideration  and  deference ;  on  Yvonne's  a  gentleness 
and  amiability  which  showed  him  how  companionable  she 
could  be.  Indeed,  her  docility  was  nothing  short  of  alarm- 
ing, and  Philidor  was  ever  on  his  guard  against  a  new 
outbreak  which,  he  was  sure,  was  to  be  expected  at  any 
moment.  But  she  cajoled  him  no  more.  Perhaps  she 
understood  him  better  now.  Who  knows?  He  spoke  no 
more  of  love,  nor  were  the  roses  of  Pere  Guegou  again 
mentioned. 

At  Mortagne,  which  they  had  reached  upon  the  sec- 
ond day,  Philidor  and  Yvonne  had  a  first  view  of  a  public 
performance  of  the  Fabiani  family,  for,  the  conditions 

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being  agreeable,  Cleofonte  had  pitched  their  camp  within 
the  limits  of  the  town,  and  a  crowd,  augmented  by 
Yvonne  and  her  orchestra,  had  made  their  visit  profitable. 
Yvonne  had  slept  that  night  at  a  small  auberge,  her  bed 
and  board  paid  for  with  money  she  had  made,  and  Phili- 
dor,  who  complained  of  a  lack  of  sitters,  slept  quite  com- 
fortably near  Clarissa  in  a  stable. 

In  the  morning  Yvonne  had  made  some  purchases  in 
the  town — and  later  they  had  caught  up  with  their  friends 
near  La  Mesle,  along  the  Sarthe,  down  which  their  road 
descended  by  easy  stages  to  their  destination. 

Alen9on  was  in  holiday  garb  and  the  tricolor  flaunted 
bravely  from  many  poles,  though  the  beginning  of  the 
fete  was  not  until  to-morrow.  The  streets  were  gay  with 
people,  the  market-place  showed  a  number  of  booths,  tents 
and  canvas  enclosures  within  which  performances  were 
already  in  progress.  The  Fabiani  family  was  late  in  ar- 
riving, but  a  spot  was  found,  between  the  sword-swallower 
and  the  Circassian  lady,  which  suited  Cleofonte's  purpose. 
So  the  roulotte  was  backed  into  place  and  Cleofonte,  his 
coat  off,  his  brows  beading,  directed  the  erection  of  the 
canvas  barrier  within  which  the  performances  were  to  be 
given.  For  let  it  be  understood  the  Fabianis  were  no 
common  mountebanks  for  whom  one  passed  a  hat.  There 
was  to  be  a  gate  through  which  one  only  passed  upon  the 
payment  of  ten  sous,  and  within  were  to  be  benches  upon 
which  one  could  sit  in  luxury  while  he  beheld  these  mar- 
vels of  the  age.  Philidor  and  Yvonne  helped,  too,  getting 
out  the  canvas  which  had  been  rolled  and  fastened  be- 
neath the  wagon,  and  the  uprights  which  supported  it. 
Not  satisfied  with  the  sign  which  was  to  be  fastened  over 
the  entrance,  Philidor  sought  out  a  paint  shop  and  before 
dark  painted  two  great  posters  three  metres  in  height ; — 

197 


MADCAP 


one  of  them  depicting  Cleofonte  with  bulging  muscles 
(real  pink  muscles  that  one  felt  like  pinching)  in  the  act 
of  breaking  into  bits  with  his  bare  hands  a  great  iron 
chain;  the  other  showing  the  child  Stella  being  tossed  in 
the  air  from  Cleofonte  to  Luigi,  her  heels  and  head  almost 
touching.  By  sunset  the  paintings  were  finished  and 
fastened  in  place,  and  when  Cleofonte  lit  the  torches  upon 
either  side  of  the  entrance  gate,  the  folk  who  were  passing 
stopped  in  wonder  to  gaze.  There  were  to  be  no  per- 
formances to-night,  Cleofonte  explained,  the  company  was 
weary ;  but  to-morrow — !  His  pause  and  the  magnificence 
with  which  his  huge  fist  tapped  his  deep  chest  were  elo- 
quence itself. 

Their  work  done  for  the  night,  Philidor  set  off  post 
haste  in  search  of  quarters  for  Yvonne ;  but  the  inns  were 
full  and  it  was  too  late  to  search  elsewhere.  So  he  bought 
a  truss  of  straw  and  one  of  hay  (for  Clarissa  and  the 
shaggy  phantom)  and  brought  them  to  the  roulotte  upon 
his  back.  The  night  was  mild,  and  so  he  made  Yvonne's 
bed  and  his  own  within  the  enclosure,  and  amid  a  babel  of 
sounds,  above  which  the  barrel  organ  of  the  carousel  near 
by  wheezed  tremulously,  they  dropped  upon  the  blankets, 
dead  tired,  and  fell  asleep  at  once. 

The  sun  was  not  long  in  the  heavens  before  the  barrel 
organ,  silenced  at  midnight,  renewed  its  plaint  and  the 
business  of  the  day  began.  After  an  early  breakfast 
Cleofonte  and  Luigi  retired  to  the  dressing  tent,  emerging 
after  a  while  in  gorgeous  costumes  of  pink  fleshings  and 
spangles,  their  hair  well  greased  with  pomatum,  their 
mustachios  elaborately  curled.  The  Signora  and  Stella 
soon  followed,  their  hair  wreathed  in  tight  braids  around 
their  heads.  The  bambino,  neglected,  was  howling  lustily, 
so  Yvonne  took  him  in  her  lap  upon  the  straw  and  soothed 

198 


him  to  slumber  while  the  carpet  was  laid  and  the  impedi- 
menta of  the  athletes  brought  out  and  placed  near  by 
for  the  day's  work. 

More  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  Yvonne  longed 
for  a  bath,  but  she  suppressed  this  desire  as  unworthy  of 
a  true  vagabond  and  washed  in  a  bucket  of  water  which 
Philidor  had  brought  from  the  pump,  sharing  at  the  last 
in  the  suppressed  excitement  which  pervaded  the  arena. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  any  that  the  Troupe 
Fabiani  was  to  be  the  great  success  of  the  occasion.  The 
duties  and  destinies  of  all  its  members  had  already  been 
explained  and  decided.  A  girl  was  hired  to  care  for  the 
bambino.  Yvonne  was  to  beat  her  drum  and  play  her 
orchestra  on  the  platform  outside,  and  this  would  attract 
the  people,  already  anxious  to  behold  the  wonders  within, 
a  foretaste  of  which  would  be  given,  when  the  crowd  gath- 
ered, by  Cleofonte,  who  would  lift  a  few  heavy  weights 
and  introduce  the  Signora,  the  Child  Wonder,  and  To- 
masso,  the  bear.  Philidor  was  to  keep  the  gate  and  be- 
tween the  performances  was  to  make  portraits  of  those 
who  desired  them.  Their  organization  was  perfection. 
Cleofonte  was  at  his  best  when  in  the  executive  capacity. 

At  nine  o'clock  Hermia  mounted  the  platform  (a 
piano  box  turned  on  its  side)  and  began  to  thump  the 
drum  and  cymbals.  Her  position  was  conspicuous  and 
she  began  a  little  uncertainly,  for  it  was  one  thing  to 
choose  one's  audience  among  the  simple  folk  of  the  coun- 
tryside, another  to  face  the  kind  of  crowd  which  now 
gathered  to  gaze  up  at  her — peasants,  horse-fanciers, 
shop  people,  clerks  on  a  holiday,  with  here  and  there  a 
person  of  less  humble  station,  but  she  bent  to  her  work 
with  a  will,  encouraged  by  the  example  of  the  Circassian 
lady  next  to  her  who  was  selling  in  brown  bottles  an  elixir 

199 


MADCAP 

which  was  a  cure  for  all  things  except  love  and  the  goiter. 
The  sword-swallower  next  them  was  already  busy,  and  the 
Homme  Sauvage,  a  hirsute  person,  whose  unprofessional 
mien  was  both  kind  and  peaceable  (as  Yvonne  had  dis- 
covered unofficially  last  night),  was  roaring  horribly,  at 
two  sous  the  head,  in  his  enclosure  near  by. 

The  wooden  horses  of  the  manege,  upon  which  some 
children  and  a  few  soldiers  from  the  garrison  were  riding, 
were  already  whirling  on  their  mad  career. 

While  Yvonne  played,  Cleofonte  and  Philidor 
"barked."  That  is,  they  proclaimed  in  loud  tones  the 
prodigies  that  were  to  be  disclosed  and  that  the  perform- 
ance was  about  to  begin ;  to  the  end  that,  in  a  little  while, 
coppers  and  centime  pieces  jingled  merrily  in  Philidor's 
coat  pocket,  the  benches  were  filled  and  a  crowd  two  deep 
stood  behind.  This  augured  well.  Cleofonte  beamed  as 
he  counted  noses,  and  the  performance  began. 

Yvonne  played  a  lively  air  while  Tomasso  was  put 
through  his  paces,  walking  with  a  stick  and  turning  som- 
ersaults, and  at  the  end  Cleofonte  put  on  a  heavy  coat 
to  keep  himself  from  being  torn  by  the  savage  claws  of 
the  beast  and  wrestled  for  some  minutes  with  Tomasso, 
making  the  act  more  realistic  by  straining  from  side  to 
side  and  puffing  violently  while  Tomasso  clung  on,  his 
muzzle  sniffing  the  air,  to  be  finally  dragged  down  upon 
his  master  and  proclaimed  the  victor.  The  applause  from 
this  part  of  the  program  was  allowed  to  die  and  a  dig- 
nified pause  ensued,  after  which  the  Signora  appeared  in 
her  famous  juggling  act,  unmindful  of  the  cries  of  the 
bambino  from  the  roulotte  in  active  rebellion  against  the 
substitute.  During  Stella's  performance,  which  followed, 
the  orchestra  played  jerkily  and  then  stopped,  for  Yvonne 
had  never  yet  succeeded  in  looking  on  at  the  child's  con- 

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tortions  without  a  pang  of  the  heart.  But  the  act  went 
smoothly  enough,  and  the  entertainment,  which  lasted 
nearly  an  hour,  concluded  with  Cleofonte's  exhibition  of 
prowess  and  the  stone-breaking  episode  of  which  he  was 
so  justly  proud. 

The  receipts  were  four  hundred  sous — twenty  francs 
— and  there  were  to  be  six  performances  a  day!  Well 
might  Cleofonte  wring  Philidor  by  the  hand  and  pay  him 
over  the  five  francs  which  he  and  Hermia  had  earned! 
There  were  no  portraits  to  do,  so  Philidor  sat  at  the 
entrance  with  Yvonne  until  the  time  for  the  next  perform- 
ance. It  was  tiresome  work  and  the  breathing  space  was 
welcome  enough.  To  Philidor  his  companion  seemed  al- 
ready weary.  But  when  he  suggested  that  perhaps  they 
had  better  take  to  the  road  again  she  shook  her  head. 

"No,  no.  I've  reached  the  soul  of  things — felt  the 
pulse-beats  of  humanity.  I  delight  with  Cleofonte,  suf- 
fer with  Stella.  I'm  learning  to  live,  that's  all." 

"I  thought  you  looked  a  little  tired,"  he  said  gently. 

"I  am  tired — but  not  mind-tired,  heart-tired,  spirit- 
tired  as  I  once  was.  My  elbows  ache  and  there's  a  raw 
place  on  my  shoulder,  but  it's  an  honorable  scar  and  I'll 
wear  it.  And  I  sleep,  O  Philidor,  I  never  knew  the  luxury 
of  sleep  such  as  mine." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  ill." 

"I  can  do  my  share,"  she  finished  steadily,  "if  Stella 
can." 

Toward  three  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  Yvonne 
mounted  her  piano  box.  The  Fabiani  family  had  been 
so  well  received  that  once  it  had  been  necessary  for  Phili- 
dor to  draw  the  flap  at  the  gate  because  there  was  no 
room  in  the  enclosure  for  more  people.  As  the  time  for 
the  beginning  of  the  fourth  performance  drew  near,  a 

201 


MADCAP 

crowd  had  again  gathered,  listening  to  the  Femme  Orches- 
tre  and  moving  in  groups  of  two  and  three  toward  the  en- 
trance where  Philidor  in  the  intervals  between  announce- 
ments pocketed  their  coins  and  watched  Yvonne.  This 
last  occupation  was  one  in  which  of  late  he  had  taken 
great  delight.  Her  costume,  as  Monsieur  de  Folligny  had 
also  discovered,  became  her  admirably,  the  sun  and  wind 
had  tanned  her  face  and  arms  to  a  rich  warmth,  and  this 
color  made  the  blue  of  her  eyes  the  more  tender.  The 
lines  he  had  discovered  in  her  face  were  absent  now,  for 
it  was  the  business  of  a  Femme  Orchestre  to  smile. 

Cleofonte  had  come  out  and  was  looking  over  the 
crowd  with  an  appraising  eye,  adding  his  own  voice  to  the 
din  as  Philidor  paused  for  breath,  when  in  the  midst  of  a 
lively  air  the  music  stopped — stopped  so  suddenly  that 
Philidor  turned  to  see  what  the  matter  was.  Yvonne  gave 
one  startled  glance  over  the  crowd,  then  jumped  down 
behind  the  box  and,  unslinging  her  orchestra  as  she 
dropped,  literally  dove  under  the  canvas  flap  and  disap- 
peared. Philidor,  who  was  in  the  act  of  making  change, 
called  Cleofonte  to  take  his  place  and  went  inside,  to  find 
that  Yvonne  had  fled  behind  the  wagon. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  alarmed.     "Are  you  ill?" 

"No,  no,"  breathlessly.  "Olga !  I  saw  her.  She's  out 
there." 

It  was  Philidor's  turn  to  be  perturbed.  "Olga 
Tcherny !  You  must  be  mistaken." 

"I'm  not.  I  wish  I  was.  I  saw  her  plainly — and  the 
Renauds,  Madeleine  de  Cahors  and  Chandler  Gushing.  O 
Philidor,  they  mustn't  see  me  here !"  She  seized  his  arm 
and  looked  up  into  his  eyes  appealingly. 

His  brows  drew  downward  and  he  glanced  toward  the 
entrance. 

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"They  wouldn't  come  in  here." 

"They  might " 

He  glanced  irresolutely  about  him  and  then  opened 
the  door  of  the  roulotte  and  helped  her  up  the  steps. 

"Stay  there — and  lock  the  door." 

He  paused  a  moment,  his  hand  on  the  doorknob,  look- 
ing over  the  heads  of  the  audience  toward  the  entrance 
flap,  where  Cleofonte,  oblivious  of  the  tragedy  which 
threatened  the  newer  members  of  his  family,  still  shouted 
hoarsely.  Philidor  stopped  in  the  dressing  tent  and  spoke 
a  few  words  to  the  Signora,  made  his  way  across  the 
arena,  peering  over  Cleofonte's  shoulder,  and  then,  his 
course  of  action  chosen,  slipped  quickly  into  his  accus- 
tomed place  outside. 

"Dix  sous,  Messieurs  et  Dames!"  he  shouted.  "The 
greatest  act  of  this  or  any  age — the  Famille  Fabiani,  the 
world  renowned  acrobats,  jugglers  and  strong  man!  Six 
great  acts  of  skill  and  strength,  any  one  of  which  is 
worth  the  price  of  admission!  Entrez,  Mes dames,  and  see 
the  fight  between  Signor  Cleofonte,  the  strongest  man  in 
the  world,  and  the  savage  bear  captured  from  the  forests 
of  Siberia!  A  contest  which  thrills  the  blood — for  in 
spite  of  the  great  strength  of  the  Signor — which  has  been 
compared  to  that  of  Samson,  who  once  fought  and  con- 
quered, single  handed,  a  lion  (smiles  of  approval  from 
Cleofonte  at  the  eloquence  of  this  comparison),  in  spite 
of  the  great  strength  of  the  Signor — I  say — the  danger 
of  his  destruction  is  ever  present,  as  any  one  who  has 
seen  the  contest  can  testify.  Come  one,  come  all,  Mes- 
sieurs, only  once  in  a  lifetime  does  one  have  a  chance  to 
see  the  Signorina  Stella  Fabiani,  the  child  wonder,  Queen 
of  the  Mat  and  Queen  of  the  Air,  in  her  extraordinary 
acts  of  flight  and  contortion " 

203 


MADCAP 

During  this  harangue  Philidor  had  felt  rather  than 
seen  the  figure  which  had  slowly  wedged  through  the 
crowd  at  one  side  and  now  stood  beside  him.  He  knew 
that  it  was  Olga  Tcherny,  but  he  had  not  dared  to  look 
at  her,  though  he  was  quite  sure  that  her  head  was 
perched  on  one  side  in  the  birdlike  pose  she  found  effec- 
tive, and  that  her  eyes,  mocking  and  mischievous,  were 
searching  him  intently.  But  he  went  on  extravagantly, 
searching  his  wits  for  Barnum-like  adjectives. 

"Entrez,  Messieurs,  and  see  the  beautiful  female 
Juggler  of  Naples,  who  tosses  ten  sharp  knives  and  burn- 
ing brands  into  the  air  at  one  and  the  same  time,  nor  lets 
one  of  them  touch  the  ground — who  tosses  a  cannon  ball, 
an  apple  and  a  piece  of  paper — who  spins  two  dishes  on 
the  end  of  a  stick,  with  one  hand,  while  she  rolls  a  hoop 
with  the  other — a  lady  who  has  acted  before  all  of  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe.  There  will  never  again  be 
such  great  artists,  a  performance  unsurpassed  and  even 
unequaled  in  the  history  of  the  Oire." 

Philidor's  adjectives  had  given  out — as  had  his  breath 
— and  so  he  paused.  As  he  did  so  he  heard  Olga's  voice 
beside  him  in  a  single  but  curiously  expressive  syllable. 

"Well?"  it  asked. 

His  eyes  met  hers  without  other  token  of  recognition 
than  a  slight  twinkle  of  amusement. 

"Mademoiselle  wishes  to  enter?  Ten  sous,  if  you 
please."  And  then  with  a  loud  voice  directed  over  her 
head,  "Entrez,  Messieurs  et  Dames,  and  see  the  hand  to 
hand  struggle  between  a  man  and  a  savage  beast !  A  con- 
test at  once  magnificent  and  appalling — one  which  you 
will  remember  to  the  end  of  your  days,  a  spectacle  to 
describe  to  your  children  and  to  your  children's  chil- 
dren  " 

204 


Philidor  had  felt  rather  than  seen  the  figure  which  had  slowly 
wedged  through  the  crowd." 


MOUNTEBANKS 


"John  Markham!"  Olga's  voice  sounded  shrilly  in 
English.  "Stop  howling  at  once  and  listen  to  me." 

"Owi,  Mademoiselle,  ten  sous,  if  you  please.  The  per- 
formance is  about  to  begin  and " 

"This  performance  has  been  going  on  quite  long 
enough.  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here  in  Alen9on?" 

"Barking,"  said  Markham  with  a  grin.  "Also  doing 
crayon  portraits  at  two  francs  fifty  a  head,"  and  he 
pointed  to  the  sign  beside  the  poster  of  Cleofonte  break- 
ing the  chains  which  advertised  the  nature  of  his  talents 
in  glowing  terms.  "My  name  is  Philidor,  Mademoiselle," 
bowing ;  "itinerant  portrait  painter — at  your  service." 

"Oh,  do  stop  that  nonsense  and  explain " 

"There's  nothing  to  explain.  Here  I  am.  That's 
all." 

"How  did  you  get  here — to  Alen9on?" 

"Walked — it's  my  custom." 

"From  Rouen?" 

He  nodded.  "I'm  a  member  of  the  Troupe  Fabiani  of 
Strolling  Acrobats,"  he  laughed.  "I'm  learning  the 
gentle  art  of  bear-baiting.  Won't  you  come  in?" 

She  searched  his  face  keenly  and  accepted  his  invita- 
tion, first  handing  him  her  fifty  centime  piece,  which  he 
dropped  without  comment  into  his  pocket.  The  enclos- 
ure was  already  filled,  so  he  closed  the  entrance  flap  and 
mounted  guard  over  it — and  Olga  stood  beside  him,  her 
glance  passing  swiftly  from  one  object  to  another.  Cleo- 
fonte's  bout  with  Tomasso  was  more  than  usually  dra- 
matic, but  her  eyes  roved  toward  the  dressing  tent,  eyeing 
with  an  uncommon  interest  the  Signora  when  she  ap- 
peared. 

"Your  troupe  is  not  large,"  Olga  remarked  when  the 
program  had  been  explained  to  her. 

205 


MADCAP 


"No,  we  are  few,  ray  dear  Olga,  but  quite  select.  You 
have  yet  to  see  Luigi  perform  and  the  Child  Wonder — 
and  the  Femme  Orchestre — a  remarkable  person  who 
plays  five  instruments  at  the  same  time." 

Olga  watched  the  show  for  a  while  with  an  abstracted 
air. 

"You  surely  can't  mean  that  you  enjoy  this  sort  of 
thing?"  she  questioned  at  last. 

He  laughed.  "I  do  mean  just  that — otherwise  I 
shouldn't  be  here,  should  I?" 

"Oh,  you're  impossible!"  she  said  impatiently. 

"I  know  it,"  he  laughed  with  a  shrug,  "and  the  worst 
of  it  is  that  I'm  quite  shameless  about  it." 

He  was  really  an  extraordinary  person.  She  couldn't 
help  wondering  how  it  was  that  she  could  have  cared  for 
him  at  all,  and  yet  she  was  quite  sure  that  he  had  never 
seemed  more  interesting  to  her  than  at  this  moment.  But 
it  was  quite  evident  that  she  did  not  believe  him.  The 
performance  was  soon  over,  the  people  crowded  toward 
the  entrance,  Olga,  alone  at  last,  remaining.  Indeed,  she 
was  making  herself  very  much  at  home,  and  to  Philidor's 
chagrin  insisted  upon  examining  the  Signora's  knives  and 
torches,  the  heavy  weights  of  Cleofonte,  the  chains  and  the 
larger  fragments  of  the  stone  which  Luigi  had  broken  on 
Cleofonte's  chest.  It  was  all  very  interesting.  Then 
she  sat  upon  a  bench,  her  glance  still  roving  restlessly, 
lighting  at  last  upon  the  house  wagon. 

"And  that,"  she  indicated,  "is  where  you  sleep?" 

"Not  I.  That's  for  the  women.  I  sleep  out  when  I 
can — indoors  when  I  must." 

Still  she  gazed  at  it,  and  while  Philidor,  his  inquietude 
rapidly  growing,  watched  her  keenly,  she  rose  and 
walked  slowly  around  the  rotdotte,  peering  under  it  where 

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MOUNTEBANKS 


the  dogs  lay  chained,  and  up  at  its  small  windows  and 
door  as  though  fascinated  by  a  new  and  interesting  study 
of  contemporary  ethnology. 

The  active  members  of  the  Fabiani  family  had  all 
retired  to  the  dressing  tent  and  were  occupied  in  the  pre- 
liminaries to  supper.  Philidor's  mind  was  working  rap- 
idly, but,  think  as  he  would,  nothing  occurred  to  him 
which  might  effectually  serve  to  stem  the  tide  of  his  visi- 
tor's dangerous  curiosity.  She  paused  before  the  door, 
looking  upward,  and  Philidor  watched  the  window  fear- 
fully. 

"It  seems  absurdly  small  for  so  many  people.  A 
baby,  too,  you  said?"  she  asked  coolly. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  are  beds,"  he  said;  "two  of  them — 
quite  comfortable,  I  believe." 

"I'm  awfully  anxious  to  see  what  it's  like  inside.  The 

Signora  wouldn't  mind,  I'm  sure "  She  put  one  foot 

on  the  steps  and  reached  up  for  the  knob. 

It  was  locked  he  knew,  for  there  was  a  key  on  the 
inside,  but  the  knowledge  of  that  fact  did  nothing  to  de- 
crease his  alarm. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  bother,"  he  muttered  helplessly. 
"There's  nothing " 

But  before  he  could  move  she  had  stepped  up  and 
with  a  quick  movement  had  flung  the  door  wide  open. 

Philidor  closed  his  eyes  a  second,  praying  for  a  mir- 
acle, then  followed  Olga's  gaze  within.  The  beds  were 
there,  the  shelves  of  dishes,  the  racks  of  clothing,  but  of 
Hermia  there  was  no  sign.  How  the  miracle  had  hap- 
pened Philidor  knew  not,  unless  she  had  gone  through 
the  roof,  but  with  the  discovery  his  courage  returned  to 
him  in  a  gush,  and  when  Olga's  eyes  keenly  sought  his 
face  he  was  calmly  smoking.  Just  at  this  moment  a  sound 

207 


MADCAP 

was  heard,  of  merry,  rippling  laughter,  light  and  mock- 
ing, which  had  a  familiar  ring.  Olga  looked  around 
quickly  toward  the  spot  behind  her  from  which  the  sounds 
seemed  to  come,  her  gaze  meeting  nothing  but  the  canvas 
wall.  They  heard  the  sounds  again,  this  time  faintly,  as 
though  receding  in  the  distance  overhead.  It  was  most 
extraordinary.  She  glanced  toward  the  dressing  tent 
from  which  the  Signora  was  just  emerging. 

"Would  you  like  to  visit  the  green  room?"  asked  Phili- 
dor,  amusedly  directing  the  way.  "We  are  a  happy  fam- 
ily, as  you  will  see.'* 

"Who  was  laughing,  John  Markham?"  asked  his 
visitor. 

His  eyes  were  blanks. 

"Laughing?  I  don't  know.  Everyone  laughs  here. 
Stella  perhaps — or  the  Circassian  lady?" 

She  shook  her  head,  still  eyeing  him  narrowly,  but 
he  only  smoked  composedly  and,  after  looking  into  the 
tent,  threw  open  the  flaps  with  a  generous  gesture  and 
invited  her  to  enter.  Cleofonte  and  Luigi  were  counting 
their  money,  but  when  the  title  of  their  visitor  was  an- 
nounced, rose  and  bowed  to  the  ground.  It  was  seldom 
that  the  Fabiani  family  had  been  done  so  great  an  honor. 

Olga  returned  his  compliments  with  others  quite  as 
graceful  upon  the  quality  of  the  performance  she  had 
witnessed,  but  her  eyes,  as  Philidor  saw,  were  still  roving 
carelessly  but  with  nice  observance  of  minutiae,  taking  in 
every  object  in  sight.  Upon  the  ground  in  the  corner 
where  it  had  been  thrown  lay  a  drum  and  cymbals  fastened 
to  a  framework  of  wire  and  straps. 

Philidor  grew  unquiet. 

"How  curious!"  she  exclaimed,  examining  the  con- 
trivance. 

208 


MOUNTEBANKS 


"It  is  the  music,"  put  in  the  Signora  pleasantly,  "of 
our  Femme  Orcliestre.  She  is  ill.  We  were  forced  to 
leave  her  yesterday  at  La  Mesle.  To-morrow  she  will 
play  again.  The  Contessa  will  hear  her,  perhaps?" 

Philidor  breathed  gratefully.  A  firmer  hand  than 
his  now  controlled  their  destinies.  Olga  searched  the  Sig- 
nora's  face,  which  was  as  innocent  as  that  of  the  bambino* 

"Grazia,  Signora,"  she  returned  politely;  "perhaps  I 
shall." 

Philidor  accompanied  her  to  the  gate,  reassured  and 
jocular. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  persist  in  this  foolish- 
ness?" she  asked  at  last  irritably. 

"Who  knows?"  he  laughed.  "I  think  I've  struck  my 
proper  level.  Did  you  see  my  posters  ?"  he  asked,  point- 
ing proudly.  "Great,  aren't  they?" 

"They're  disgusting,"  said  Olga. 

He  smiled  good-hum o redly.  "That's  too  bad.  I'm 
sorry.  I  thought  you'd  like  'em." 

She  only  shrugged  contemptuously. 

"And  this  is  your  Valhalla?"  she  sniffed.  "A  kingdom 
of  charlatans,  and  tinsel  and  clap-trap,  of  fricassees  and 
onions,  and  greasy  mendicants.  Ugh!  You're  rather 
overdoing  the  simple  life,  Monsieur  er — Philidor.  You're 
very  ragged  and — ah — a  trifle  soiled." 

"Outwardly  only,  chere  Olga,"  he  laughed.  "Inwardly 
my  soul  is  lily-white." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  No  one's  soul  can  be  lily- 
white  whose  beard  is  two  weeks  old.  Also,  mon  ami,  you 
look  half  famished." 

"My  soul "  he  began. 

"Your  stomach!"  she  broke  in.  "Come  with  me.  At 
least  I'm  going  to  see  you  properly  fed." 

209 


MADCAP 

"You're  awfully  kind,  but " 

"You  refuse?" 

"I  must — besides,  you  could  hardly  expect  me  to 
appear  at  your  house  party  in  these." 

She  turned  on  her  heel  and  walked  away  from  him. 

"I  hardly  expect  you  ever  to  do  anything  that  I  want 
you  to  do." 

"But,  Olga, " 

Without  turning  her  head  she  disappeared  in  the 
crowd. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE   EMPTY   HOUSE 

MARKHAM  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the  white 
plume  of  Olga  Tcherny's  huge  straw  hat  until 
it  nodded  its  way  out  of  sight.    Then  he  turned 
back  just  in  time  to  note  a  disturbance  of  the  canvas 
barrier,  from  under  which,  her  slouch  hat  pushed  down 
over  her  ears,  her  gray  coat  hiding  her  finery,  Hermia 
breathlessly  emerged. 

"I've  never  had  such  a  fright  since  I  was  born,"  she 
laughed  nervously.  "She  won't  come  back?" 

"I  think  not." 

He  helped  her  to  her  feet.  "It's  lucky  you  weren't  in 
the  roulotte." 

"Not  luck — forethought.  I  knew  she'd  never  be  con- 
tent until  she'd  seen  the  inside  of  that  wagon.  She  ex- 
pected to  find  me  there." 

"You!     She  saw  you — outside?" 

"No — I'll  take  my  oath  on  that — you  see,  I  saw  her 
first.  But  she  expected  to  find  me  there  just  the  same. 
I  can't  tell  you  why — a  woman  guesses  these  things.  I 
watched  her.  She's  a  deep  one."  She  laughed  again. 
"I  wouldn't  have  her  find  me  here  for  anything  in  the 
world."  She  suddenly  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Phili- 
dor !  we  must  go  on — at  once." 

"But  you're  tired " 

211 


MADCAP 

"I'd  be  in  a  worse  plight  if  I  were  identified — by 
Olga." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then,  pointing  to  the  dress- 
ing tent,  turned  swiftly  and  went  out,  examining  the 
street  between  the  booths,  and  then,  with  a  pretence  of 
looking  to  the  fastenings  of  the  uprights,  carelessly  made 
the  round  outside  the  barrier.  An  atmosphere  of  peace 
pervaded  the  encampment  and  an  odor  of  cooking  food. 
The  crowd  had  scattered  and  of  Olga,  or  Olga's  party,  he 
saw  nothing. 

A  wail  went  up  in  the  dressing  tent  when  Hermia  an- 
nounced her  decision.  What  should  Cleofonte  do  without 
her?  It  was  she  who  attracted  the  crowds — the  eloquence 
of  Monsieur  Philidor  which  drew  them  within  the  arena. 
Never  in  their  lives  had  the  Fabiani  family  enjoyed  such 
success.  And  now — that  the  Signor  and  Signora  should 
go!  It  was  unthinkable — unbelievable!  Cleofonte  could 
not  permit  it.  But  Yvonne  was  obdurate.  There  were 
reasons — the  Signor  would  understand  that — which  made 
this  decision  inevitable.  They  must  go — at  once,  as  soon 
as  the  night  kad  fallen. 

The  first  shock  over,  Cleofonte  clasped  his  hands  over 
his  knees  and  stared  gloomily  at  the  tent  flap.  If  the 
Signora  could  have  stopped  in  Alen£on  but  two  days 
more.  He,  Cleofonte,  would  have  paid  ten  francs  a 
performance — anything  to  keep  them  there.  Signora 
Fabiani  moved  silently  about  her  tasks,  but  her  eyes  were 
deep  with  wisdom.  What  she  was  thinking,  Philidor  knew 
not,  nor  did  Yvonne  set  the  matter  straight.  It  was 
necessary  to  go — that  was  all.  It  was  very  sad  and  made 
Yvonne  unhappy,  But  she  had,  unfortunately,  no  choice 
in  the  matter.  When  it  was  clearly  to  be  seen  that  the 
decision  was  unalterable,  Cleofonte  jingled  his  bag  of 


THE   EMPTY  HOUSE 


coppers  and  sighed,  Luigi  scowled  at  vacancy  and  Stella 
unreservedly  wept. 

"We  could  have  made  two  thousand  francs,"  mut- 
tered Cleofonte. 

"More  than  that,"  said  Luigi  the  silent,  "three  thou- 
sand." 

"There  will  be  no  longer  pleasure  in  the  decarcasse 
when  the  music  ceases  to  play,"  sobbed  Stella. 

Yvonne  put  her  arms  around  the  child  and  kissed  her 
gently. 

"We  shall  meet  again — soon,  car  a  mia." 

"I  know — in  Heaven,"  cried  Stella,  refusing  to  be 
comforted. 

"We  shall  find  you  again,  child,  never  fear,"  said 
Yvonne. 

Stella's  eyes  brightened.     "Then  you  will  return?" 

Yvonne  patted  her  cheek  softly. 

"Have  I  not  said  I  will  see  you  again,  carissima?" 
she  finished. 

After  supper  Philidor  went  forth  and  bought  supplies 
which  were  packed  securely  upon  Clarissa,  together  with 
Philidor's  knapsack  and  other  personal  belongings.  Her- 
mia  changed  her  gay  apparel  for  a  shirtwaist  and  dark 
skirt,  and  when  dusk  fell,  after  a  reconnaissance  by 
Luigi,  the  back  of  the  canvas  barrier  was  raised  and 
the  trio  quietly  departed  and  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
shadows  of  a  back  street. 

The  weather  so  far  still  favored  them,  but  the  night 
was  murky  and  high  overhead  the  clouds  were  flying  fast. 
Their  road,  and  they  chose  the  first  one  which  led  them 
forth  of  the  town,  wound  up  between  a  row  of  hedges  and 
pollard  trees  to  an  eminence  from  which,  when  they 
paused  for  breath,  they  had  a  view  of  the  lights  of  the 


MADCAP 

town.  The  manege  whirled  and  the  barrel  organ  still 
wheezed  its  thin  thread  of  sound  across  the  still  air.  The 
Homme  Sauvage  was  roaring  again  and  the  deep  voice  of 
Cleofonte,  their  late  partner  and  companion,  was  heard  at 
intervals  in  his  familiar  plaint.  There  was  a  fascination 
in  the  lights  and  in  the  medley  of  noises — each  of  which 
had  come  to  possess  an  interest  and  a  personality — for  be- 
hind them  were  the  pale  road  and  the  inhospitable  dark- 
ness. 

"It  seems  a  pity  to  leave  them,"  said  Hermia,  thinking 
of  Stella,  "when  we  were  doing  so  well.  I  shall  regret  the 
roulotte." 

John  Markham  smiled. 

"It's  time  we  were  moving,  then,"  he  said.  "Your  true 
vagabond  wants  no  roots — even  in  a  roulotte — nor  re- 
grets anything." 

"I  can't  forgive  Olga  for  this.  I  consider  her  most 
intrusive,  impertinent " 

Markham  had  laid  warning  fingers  upon  her  arm.  A 
moment  ago  on  the  hill  below  them  a  man's  figure  had 
been  in  silhouette  against  the  lights.  At  the  sound  of 
their  voices  it  had  suddenly  disappeared.  They  stood 
in  silence  for  a  moment,  watching,  but  the  figure  did  not 
reappear. 

"That  was  curious.  I  was  mistaken,  perhaps,"  said 
Markham.  "Come,  we  must  go  on." 

They  turned  their  backs  resolutely  to  the  light  and 
in  a  moment  had  passed  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  and 
were  alone  under  the  wan  light  of  the  darkening  heavens. 
They  had  not  traveled  by  night  before  and  the  obscurity 
closed  in  upon  them  shrouded  in  mystery.  But  as  they 
emerged  from  beneath  the  trees  their  eyes  became  accus- 
tomed to  the  darkness  and  they  followed  the  road  cheer- 

214 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 


fully  enough,  determined  to  put  as  many  kilometers  as 
possible  between  themselves  and  the  threatening  white 
plume  of  Olga  Tcherny  which  seemed  in  the  last  few 
hours  to  have  achieved  an  appalling  significance.  At 
first  Markham  had  been  disposed  to  laugh  at  Hermia's 
fears.  What  reason  in  the  world  could  Olga  have  had  to 
suspect  Hermia's  share  in  his  innocent  pilgrimage?  Of 
his  own  tastes  she  had  of  course  been  ready  to  believe 
anything,  and  he  had  had  ample  proof  that  she  thor- 
oughly disapproved  of  his  present  mode  of  living.  Nor 
was  that  a  matter  which  could  affect  a  great  deal  their 
personal  relations,  which  were  already  strained  to  the 
point  of  tolerance.  But  as  to  his  companion — that  was 
another  affair.  He  had  never  understood  the  intuitions 
of  women  and  thought  them  more  often  shrewd  guess- 
work in  which  they  were  as  likely  to  be  wrong  as  right. 
But  the  more  he  considered  what  Hermia  had  said  to  him, 
the  more  definite  became  the  impression  that  Olga 
Tcherny  had  fallen  upon  some  clew  to  Hermia's  where- 
abouts— that  she  had  expected  to  find  her — as  Hermia 
had  said — in  Cleofonte's  house-wagon.  He  knew  some- 
thing of  Olga  and  had  a  wholesome  respect  for  her  intel- 
ligence. If  it  was  to  her  interest  to  prove  Hermia  his 
companion  on  this  mad  pilgrimage,  it  was  clearly  to 
Hermia's  interest  to  prove  her  own  non-existence.  As 
Hermia  had  suggested,  her  intrusiveness  was  impertinent, 
and  Markham  mentally  added  the  adjectives  "ruthless" 
and  "indecent."  He  had  been  almost  ready  to  add  "venge- 
ful," but  could  not  really  admit,  even  to  himself,  that  she 
had  anything  to  be  vengeful  about. 

Whatever  Hermia's  further  thoughts  upon  the  sub- 
ject, for  the  present  she  kept  them  to  herself.  They 
walked  along  as  rapidly  as  Clarissa's  gait  would  allow, 

215 


MADCAP 

for  the  tiny  beast,  never  precipitate  at  the  best  of  times, 
found  the  darkness  little  to  her  liking  and  pattered  along 
with  evident  reluctance,  mindful  of  the  truss  of  hay  only 
half  eaten  which  she  had  left  under  Cleof onte's  hospitable 
lights.  /, 

At  a  turn  in  the  road  Markham  determined  to  verify  ' 

.  i 

his    suspicions    of   a   while    ago,    and    accordingly   drew 

Clarissa  among  some  bushes,  and,  stick  in  hand,  awaited 
the  approach  of  the  shadow  which  he  was  sure  still  hung 
upon  their  trail.  Distant  objects  were  dimly  discernible, 
and  Markham  had  almost  decided  that  he  had  been  mis- 
taken when  the  crackling  of  a  twig  at  no  great  distance 
advised  him  that  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge  someone  was 
approaching.  He  remained  quiet  until  a  man  slowly 
emerged  from  the  shadows,  when  he  stepped  quickly  out 
of  his  hiding  place  and  confronted  him. 

Markham's  six  feet  were  menacing,  and  his  pursuer 
stopped  in  his  tracks,  eyeing  Markham's  stick,  undecided 
as  to  whether  it  were  the  best  policy  to  face  the  thing 
out  or  take  to  his  heels.  As  Markham's  legs  were  longer 
than  his,  he  chose  the  former  and  made  a  brave  enough 
show  of  indifference,  though  his  tongue  wagged  uncer- 
tainly. 

"B-bon  soir,  Monsieur,"  he  stammered.  "ZZ  fait 
beau " 

But  Markham  was  in  no  mood  to  pass  compliments 
upon  the  weather. 

"What  are  you  following  me  for?"  he  growled. 

"Follow  you,  Monsieur?  I  do  not  comprehend,"  said 
the  man. 

"I'll  aid  your  understanding,  then.  You  followed  us 
up  the  hill  out  of  Alen9on.  I  saw  you.  Well,  here  I  am. 
What  do  you  want?" 

216 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 


"The  roads  of  the  Oire  are  free,"  he  answered  sul- 
lenly, gaining  courage. 

"Perhaps  they  are.  But  no  man  with  honest  business 
slinks  along  the  hedges.  You  go  your  way,  do  you 
hear?" 

"The  roads  of  France  are  free,"  the  man  muttered 
again. 

Markham  quickly  struck  a  match,  and,  before  the  man 
could  turn  away,  had  looked  into  his  face.  He  wore  the 
cap  and  blouse  of  a  chauffeur  and  his  legs  were  encased 
in  the  black  puttees  of  his  craft.  Olga's  ambassador  was 
unworthy  of  her. 

"Well,  you  go  back  to  those  who  sent  you  here  and 
say  with  the  compliments  of  Monsieur  Philidor  that  the 
roads  of  the  Perche  are  dangerous  after  dark.  I've  every 
right  to  break  your  head,  and  if  I  meet  you  again  I'll  do 
it.  Comprenez?" 

The  man  eyed  Markham's  stick  dubiously  again  and 
then,  with  a  glance  toward  the  pair  in  the  bushes,  silently 
walked  away.  They  watched  him  until  he  was  lost  in  the 
shadows  of  the  trees. 

"You  see,"  said  Markham,  "I  was  right.  But  I  can't 
understand  it.  Why  should  Olga ?" 

Hermia  was  laughing  softly. 

"Don't  tell  me  you're  as  stupid  as  that." 

He  took  Clarissa  by  the  halter  and  led  the  way  into 
the  road  again.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  slowly. 

"I  mean,  mon  ami,  that  you  have  aroused  in  Olga's 
breast  a  dangerous  emotion.  She  decided  some  time  ago 
to  marry  you.  Didn't  you  know  that?  It's  quite  true. 
She  told  me  so." 

"Told  you?" 

"Not  in  words.     Oh,  no.     Olga  never  tells  anything 
217 


MADCAP 

important  to  anyone.     But  she  told  me  so  just  the  same. 
I  know." 

"Nonsense.  She's  a  coquette.  I've  always  under- 
stood that,  but  to  marry /" 

"Precisely  that — nothing  else.  She's  madly  in  love 
with  you,  my  poor  friend.  She  has  never  failed  to  bring 
a  man  to  her  feet  when  she  made  up  her  mind  to.  The 
deduction  is  obvious." 

There  was  no  need  of  daylight  to  see  the  expression 
on  her  companion's  face.  Hermia  could  read  it  in  the 
dark. 

"What  you  say  is  highly  unimportant,"  he  said  with  an 
attempt  at  a  smile.  "And  because  she  desires  to  make  me 
— er — her  husband  she  employs  persons  to  follow  me 
along  the  byways  of  France?" 

"Oh,  no.  Not  to  follow  you,  my  friend.  Me.  You 
are  merely  the  bone  of  contention.  I  am  the  impudent 
terrier  who  has  interfered  with  the  peace  of  her  repast." 

"Impossible.  She  doesn't  even  know  you're  out  of 
Paris.  How  can  she  know?" 

"Now  you're  delving  into  the  intricacies  of  the  femi- 
nine mind — an  occupation  to  which  you're  as  little  suited 
as  Clarissa — and  she's  a  woman.  You  must  take  my 
word  for  it.  Olga  has  often  amazed  me  by  the  accuracy 
of  her  intuitions.  I  have  imagined  that  where  her  own 
interests  were  involved  they  would  be  nothing  short  of 
miraculous.  She  is  quite  as  sure  that  I  am  your  com- 
panion at  the  present  moment  as  though  she  had  seen  me 
in  the  Signer  Cleofonte's  roulotte." 

"Then  if  she  is  so  sure,"  he  asked  with  excellent  logic, 
"why  should  she  make  so  much  bother  about  it?" 

Hermia  laughed.  "The  mere  fact  that  she  is  making 
a  bother  about  it  is  significance  itself.  She'll  find  me  if 

218 


THE  EMPTY   HOUSE 


she  can  and  confront  me  with  the  damning  fact  of  your 
presence  in  my  society." 

"And  precious  little  good  that  would  do  her,"  he  put 
in  rather  brutally. 

"Or  me,"  said  Hermia  gravely.  "Hell  hath  no  hatred 
— et  cetera.  You've  spurned  her,  Philidor, — in  spirit,  if 
not  in  letter.  Get  her  the  chance  and  she  will  pillory  me 
in  the  market-place." 

Markham  went  along  in  silence,  his  earlier  impres- 
sions confirmed  by  the  argument,  sure  that  the  chance  of 
discovery  must  be  avoided  at  all  hazards.  A  watch  of  the 
road  had  revealed  no  sign  of  the  stealthy  chauffeur,  but 
that  argued  nothing.  He  was  an  obstinate  little  animal, 
evidently  quite  capable,  since  his  discomfiture,  of  follow- 
ing the  adventure  through  to  its  end.  They  must  outman- 
euver  him.  Presently  Markham  discovered  what  he  had 
been  looking  for — a  path  hardly  perceptible  in  the  dark- 
ness, which  led  through  the  bushes  and  promised  immu- 
nity. They  followed  it  silently,  pausing  for  a  while  to 
listen  for  sounds  of  pursuit,  and  at  last,  with  minds  re- 
lieved, if  not  quite  certain,  plodded  on  into  the  obscur- 
ity. They  had  entered,  it  seemed,  an  aisle  of  a  forest 
which  stretched,  darkly  impenetrable,  on  either  side.  Be- 
fore them,  blackness,  darkness  within  dark,  like  a  cave, 
a  smell  of  dampness  like  a  dungeon.  The  sky  lightened 
for  a  moment  and  they  saw  the  shape  of  leaves  and  tree 
fronds  far  above  them  like  a  pattern  on  a  carpet — a  pat- 
tern which  changed  with  elflike  witchery,  for  a  wind  had 
blown  up  and  sounded  about  them  with  the  roar  of  a  dis- 
tant sea,  rising  now  and  then  in  a  mighty  crescendo,  like 
the  boom  of  a  nearer  wave  upon  the  shore.  The  tree  tops 
swayed  and  joined  in  the  splendid  diapason.  Nature 
breathed  deeply. 

219 


Markham  led  the  way,  his  hand  upon  Clarissa's  bridle, 
peering  along  their  slender  trail,  while  Hermia,  all  her 
senses  keenly  alive  to  the  witchery  of  the  night,  followed 
closely,  casting  timorous  glances  over  her  shoulder  into 
the  murky  gloom,  in  which  she  fancied  she  could  discern 
the  shapes  of  pursuers.  Once  thinking  she  had  heard  a 
sound  behind  her,  she  caught  Markham's  arm  and  they 
stopped,  breathless,  and  listened,  but  they  heard  nothing 
in  the  rushing  blackness  but  the  complaint  of  an  owl  and 
the  crash  of  a  dead  limb  at  a  distance  to  their  right.  A 
drop  of  rain  fell  on  Markham's  hand.  Their  prospect 
was  not  pleasant.  Markham  struck  a  match  under  his 
coat  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  one  o'clock.  They 
had  been  walking  for  four  hours.  He  tried  to  focus  his 
eyes  upon  the  blackness.  This  path  must  lead  somewhere 
— a  shed  even  would  serve  them  if  it  rained  harder.  The 
brief  glimpse  he  had  of  Hermia's  face  showed  it  pale  and 
dark-eyed  with  a  look  he  had  never  discovered  in  it  be- 
fore, not  of  fear,  for  fear  he  had  begun  to  believe  was 
foreign  to  her.  The  light  had  cut  them  off  for  a  moment 
from  the  rest  of  the  world,  or  rather  had  made  more  defi- 
nite the  little  world  of  their  own,  but  Hermia's  eyes 
still  peered  over  her  shoulder,  distended  and  alert.  She 
was  on  the  defensive,  ready  for  headlong  flight,  like  a 
naiad  startled. 
*  "I'm  sorry,  Hermia.  You're  dead  tired — aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  I — I  am — a  little,"  she  said  quietly. 

"We've  traveled  almost  far  enough.  We  must  have 
come  a  mile  at  least  into  this  forest.  It  seems  limitless." 

He  peered  about,  taking  a  few  steps  forward  along 
the  path,  which  widened  here.  The  trees,  too,  were  further 
apart,  and  a  larger  patch  of  the  windy  sky  was  visible. 
Hermia  followed,  guiding  the  donkey.  They  emerged  into 

220 


THE  EMPTY   HOUSE 


a  glade,  their  road  now  well  defined,  and  made  out  against 
the  trees  beyond  a  rectangular  bulk  of  gray.  Markham 
went  forward  more  briskly,  his  spirits  rising.  Providence 
was  kind  to  them.  A  house !  A  house  in  France,  he  had 
discovered,  meant  hospitality.  To-night,  at  least,  it  meant 
a  shelter  from  the  rain  which  now  pattered  crisply  upon 
the  dry  leaves  of  a  forgotten  autumn.  A  small  affair  it 
was,  a  keeper's  or  a  forester's  lodge  of  one  story  only, 
with  a  small  shed  or  stable  at  the  side.  There  were  no 
lights,  but  that  was  reasonable  enough.  French  country 
folk  made  no  pretence  of  entertaining  visitors  at  such 
early  hours  of  the  morning.  As  they  approached  the 
building  the  matter  of  its  occupancy  seemed  open  to  ques- 
tion, for  the  closed  windows  stared  blankly  at  the  leaden 
sky.  An  eloquent  shutter  hung  helplessly  from  its  hinges 
and  weeds  ranged  riotously  about  the  front  door,  near 
which  a  wooden  bench  lay  overturned.  While  Hermia 
waited  under  a  tree  Markham  walked  slowly  around  the 
house,  returning  presently  with  the  information  that  its 
rear  confirmed  the  impression  of  desertion.  But  to  make 
the  matter  certain  he  walked  to  the  door  and  vigorously 
clanged  the  knocker.  Hollow  echoes,  but  no  other  sound. 
He  knocked  again ;  to  his  surprise  the  door  yielded  to  the 
touch  of  his  shoulder  and  creakily  opened. 

"We'll  go  in,  I  think,"  he  laughed.  And,  leaving  the 
patient  donkey  for  the  moment  to  her  fate,  he  led  the 
way  indoors.  A  match  illumined  for  a  moment  the  hall- 
way, showing  a  ladder-like  stair  to  a  trap  door  above, 
and  then,  sputtering  faintly  in  the  musty  air,  went  out. 
Since  matches  were  scarce,  he  deftly  made  a  torch  of  a 
paper  from  his  pocket  with  better  success.  A  brief  glance 
into  the  room  at  their  left  showed  signs  of  recent  occu- 
pancy. His  quick  survey  marked  an  oil  lamp  in  the 


MADCAP 

corner,  which,  upon  investigation,  proved  to  be  in  work- 
ing order,  so  he  lit  it  with  the  end  of  his  expiring  taper. 

The  room  was  handsomely  paneled  in  white.  There 
was  a  couch  in  the  corner,  a  rug  upon  the  floor  and  sev- 
eral easy  chairs  were  drawn  sociably  toward  the  chimney 
breast;  along  one  wall  was  a  gun-rack  and  in  the  center 
of  the  room  a  table  with  a  litter  of  magazines,  a  box  of 
cigars,  a  decanter  of  wine  and  some  glasses. 

Their  appraisal  concluded,  they  faced  each  other 
blankly.  Then  Markham  laughed. 

"I  wonder  what's  the  punishment  for  poaching  in 
France,"  he  said  gaily. 

Hermia  dropped  wearily  upon  the  couch. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know — or  care  in  the  least,"  she 
sighed.  "I'll  go  to  prison  willingly  in  the  morning  if 
they'll  only  let  me  sleep  now.  I'm  tired.  I  didn't  know 
I  could  ever  be  so  tired." 

Markham  glanced  at  her  and  then  quickly  poured  out 
a  glass  of  wine,  brought  it  to  her,  and  in  spite  of  her  pro- 
tests made  her  drink. 

"Stolen,"  she  muttered  between  sips. 

"It's  no  less  useful  because  of  that,"  he  said,  coolly 
helping  himself.  "It's  medicine — for  both  of  us.  We've 
had  eighteen  hours  to-day.  Salut,  Yvonne!  We'll  pay 
for  it  some  day." 

"To  whom?" 

To  the  chap  who  owns  this  lodge — a  man  of  taste,  a 
good  Samaritan  and  a  gentleman,  if  a  mere  vagabond  may 
be  a  judge  of  Amontillado."  He  finished  the  glass  at  a 
gulp  and  set  it  upon  the  table.  From  her  couch  she 
watched  him  as  he  opened  the  windows  and  closed  and 
fastened  the  shutters.  Then  he  went  outside  and  she 
heard  him  pottering  around  in  the  rain  with  Clarissa, 

222 


THE  1EMPTT  HOUSE 


undoing  the  pack  and  bringing  it  into  the  house,  and  lead- 
ing the  donkey  off  in  the  direction  of  the  shed. 

"An  excellent  man,  our  host,"  he  laughed  from  the 
doorway.  "Clarissa  is  up  to  her  ears  in  hay." 

He  dripped  with  moisture,  and,  mindful  of  the  fur- 
niture, took  off  his  coat  and  hat  and  shook  them  in  the 
hall. 

"Now,  child,  we're  snug.  It's  raining  hard.  No  one 
would  venture  here  in  such  a  night.  You  must  sleep — 
at  once." 

"What  will  you  do?"  she  asked  drowsily. 

"I'm  perishing  for  a  smoke.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you?" 

"Oh,  no, — but  you  must — must  sleep — too.  I'm — 
very  tired — very "  The  words  trailed  off  into  mum- 
bling, and  before  he  could  fill  his  pipe  she  was  breathing 
deeply. 

He  got  up  and  laid  her  coat  over  her  feet  and  then 
stood  beside  her,  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  watching. 

"Poor  little  madcap,"  he  whispered ;  "mad  little — sad 
little  madcap." 

He  bent  over  her  tenderly,  with  a  longing  to  smooth 
away  the  tired  lines  at  her  eyes  with  caresses,  to  take 
her  in  his  arms  and  soothe  her  with  gentleness.  She 
seemed  very  small,  very  slender,  too  small,  too  childish 
to  have  raised  such  a  tempest  in  the  deeper  currents  of 
his  spirit,  and  he  groped  forward,  his  fingers  trembling 
for  the  touch  of  her. 

He  straightened  with  a  sigh.  He  could  not  and  he 
knew  it;  for  she  trusted  him  and  trust  in  him  was  her 
defence,  a  valiant  one  even  against  his  tenderness.  It 
had  always  been  one  of  the  hardest  burdens  he  had  to 
bear.  He  watched  her  a  while  longer,  then  turned  away 

223 


MADCAP 

and  sank  into  a  chair  bj  the  table,  soberly  lit  his  pipe 
and  smoked,  his  eyes  roving.  There  were  colored  prints 
upon  the  wall,  well  chosen  ones  of  deer  and  fox  hunters 
in  full  chase;  upon  the  table  an  ash  tray  of  Satsuma 
ware  and  several  books.  He  took  up  the  one  nearest  him, 
a  volume  on  big  game  hunting,  and  turned  the  pages  idly. 
Their  unconscious  and  unwilling  host  took  his  sports 
seriously,  it  seemed.  He  dropped  the  book  upon  his 
knees,  and  as  he  did  so  it  fell  open  at  the  fly  leaf,  upon 
which  in  a  feminine  scrawl  a  name  was  inscribed.  He 
read  it  with  surprise  and  concern.  "Madeleine  de 

Cahors  !"   Olga  Tcherny's  Norman  friend — who  lived 

Alen^on !  What  a  dolt  he  was !  This  was  the  forest 
of  Ecouves — or  a  part  of  it — and  in  the  night  he  had 
come  into  the  preserve  of  the  wealthy  marquis.  Olga's 
friends — and  Olga !  A  fine  escape  he  had  made  of  it,  into 
the  very  sphere  of  the  Countess  Tcherny's  activities ! 
The  chateau  must  be  near  here,  at  the  most  not  more 
than  a  few  kilometers  distant.  He  was  a  clod-pate,  noth- 
ing less.  For  with  all  the  Oire  to  choose  from  he  had 
stumbled  blindly  into  the  one  path  that  led  to  danger. 
What  was  to  be  done?  He  got  to  his  feet  stealthily  and 
went  through  the  lodge.  A  dining  room,  kitchen  and 
pantry  upon  the  other  side  of  the  hallway,  deserted,  but, 
like  the  living  room,  giving  signs  of  recent  use.  He 
opened  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  shadows  of  the 
forest  were  barely  discernible  through  the  driving  rain. 
It  was  a  boisterous  night,  its  inclemency  heightened  when 
viewed  from  the  shelter  of  this  friendly  roof,  one  which 
must  defy  their  sleuth,  the  chauffeur,  had  he  had  the 
temerity  or  the  stealth  to  follow  them  through  the  forest. 
Markham  watched  for  a  while,  nevertheless,  and  then, 
satisfied  that  for  the  night  at  least  they  were  safe  from 

224 


THE   EMPTY  HOUSE 


discovery,  returned  to  the  living  room  and  dropped  into 
his  chair,  determining  to  sit  and  listen  a  while  and  then 
perhaps  take  a  few  hours  of  sleep. 

There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  His  companion 
was  beyond  moving,  unless  he  carried  her,  and  this  he 
knew  in  his  present  condition  could  not  be  far.  To-mor- 
row morning  they  must  be  abroad  early  and  make  their 
way  at  top  speed  out  of  the  forest,  trusting  to  the  luck 
that  had  so  far  favored  them  to  bring  them  out  of  harm's 
way.  It  was  curious,  though,  the  way  Olga  had  persisted 
in  his  thoughts.  Marry?  Him?  Incredible!  Had  she 
not  taken  the  pains  so  long  ago  to  make  him  understand 
that  marriage  was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  she  would 
ever  think  of  again?  Their  agreement  on  the  funda- 
mentals of  independence  had  been  one  of  their  strongest 
ties.  That  kiss  in  Hermia's  rose  garden  meant  nothing 
to  Olga — or  to  him.  An  accident — physical  only — the 
possibility  of  which  their  former  agreements  had  unfor- 
tunately not  foreseen.  Hermia  was  mistaken — that  was 
all.  And  yet — why  this  pursuit?  It  all  seemed  a  little 
too  deep  for  his  comprehension  at  the  present  moment. 
His  mind  groped  for  lucidity,  failed,  and  then  was  blank. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

NEMESIS 

THE  storm  had  blown  itself  out  in  the  night  and  the 
sun  came  blithely  up,  awaking  the  forest  to  its 
orisons.     The  oaks  dripped  jewels  and  the  black 
pines  lifted  their  gilded  spires   above  the  clearing  and 
nodded  solemnly   to   the   rosy  East.      The   sun   climbed 
higher  and  a  thin  pall  of  vapor  roamed  up  the  hillside 
from  the  gorges  of  the  stream  and  sought  the  open  sky. 
Nature  had  wept  out  the  gusts  of  her  passion  and 
her  smiles  were  the  more  beautiful  through  the  vestiges  of 
her  tears.    The  sunlight  was  spattered  lavishly  among  the 
shadows,  glowing  with  a  lambent  light  in  the  hidden  places 
under  shrub  and  thicket  and  dancing  madly  on  leaf  and 
bough.     There  was  mischief  in  the  air  and  it  took  but  a 
little  flight  of  the  fancy  to  conjure  Pan  and  his  nymphs 
gamboling  about  the  sleeping  house  of  the  vagabonds. 

Morning  had  importuned  their  shutters  long  before 
Markham  awoke  and  gazed  with  startled  eyes  at  the  diag- 
onal bar  of  orange  light  which  cut  the  obscurity  of  their 
hiding  place.  Then,  rubbing  his  eyes,  he  stumbled  to  his 
feet  and  stared  at  his  watch.  It  was  nine  o'clock.  Hermia 
still  slept,  huddled  under  her  overcoat,  one  rosy  cheek 
pillowed  on  her  open  palm,  her  tumbled  hair  flooding 
riotously  about  her  shoulders.  Markham  stopped  a  mo- 
ment to  gaze  at  her  again,  but  she  stirred  under  his  look, 
so  he  moved  quickly  away  to  the  door  and  peered  cau- 

226 


NEMESIS 


tiously  out,  searching  the  forest  with  eager  eyes.  Gain- 
ing courage,  he  went  out,  making  the  round  of  the  house 
with  eyes  and  ears  intent.  There  was  much  ado  among 
the  tree  tops  and  a  scurrying  of  four-footed  things 
among  the  underbrush,  but  of  two-footed  things  he  saw 
^nothing.  He  fetched  a  pail  of  water  for  Clarissa  and 
was  in  the  act  of  entering  the  house  when  a  gun  cracked 
sharply  at  some  distance  on  his  left.  The  forest  stopped 
to  listen  with  him  for  a  full  moment  as  the  echoes  went 
bounding  among  the  rocks.  And  then  a  whirring  of  wings 
great  and  small,  hither  and  yon,  announced  that  there 
were  other  vagabonds  as  startled  as  he.  Two  more  shots, 
this  time  in  the  distance  behind  him,  followed  quickly  by 
a  startling  noise  close  at  hand. 

Clarissa,  her  whole  soul  in  the  note,  was  incontinently 
braying. 

It  was  an  unearthly  sound  and  an  unfamiliar  one. 
For  never  in  the  smooth  course  of  their  acquaintance  had 
she  been  guilty  of  such  an  indiscretion.  He  hurried  to 
the  shed,  but  before  he  reached  the  door  she  ceased,  and 
when  he  entered  regarded  him  with  a  wistful  eye  of 
recrimination  which  forestalled  his  reproaches.  After  all, 
she  was  only  an  ass !  The  damage,  if  damage  there  was, 
had  already  been  done.  In  grave  doubt  as  to  his  own 
immediate  course,  he  hurried  to  the  lodge,  where  he  found 
Hermia  sitting  wide-eyed  upon  her  couch,  fearfully  await- 
ing him. 

"What  on  earth  has  happened,  Philidor?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  laughed.  "Our  host  is  abroad  with 
a  shotgun.  Clarissa  objects,  and  is  so  much  of  an  ass 
that  she  can't  hold  her  tongue  about  it." 

She  smiled  and  got  to  her  feet. 
227 


MADCAP 


"I  must  have  slept " 

"Precisely  seven  hours.  It's  half-past  nine.  We  must 
be  off  at  once — by  the  back  door  if  there  is  one " 

"Are  they  coming  this  way?" 

"I  didn't  stop  to  inquire.  They're  near  enough,  at 
any  rate." 

"We  could  explain,  couldn't  we — I  mean  about  the 
storm  and  the  door  being  open?" 

"Hardly — this  shooting  lodge,  my  child, — this  forest, 

too,  is  the  property  of  the  De  Cahors.     See "  and  he 

showed  her  the  book. 

"OPhilidor!    What  shall  we  do?" 

"Get  out  at  once.  They  mustn't  see  you  at  any  cost. 
If  they  come  you  must  take  to  the  bushes,  and  meet  me 
in  Hauterire.  It's  a  case  of  the  devil  take  the  hindmost — 

the  hindmost  being  me  and  the  devil  being "  he  paused 

significantly. 

"Olga !    Do  you  think  she  can  be  shooting,  too  ?" 

He  shrugged.  "She's  quite  apt  to  be  doing  precisely 
that,"  he  said  shortly. 

Hermia  flew  to  the  window  and,  unlatching  the  shut- 
ter, peered  timidly  forth.  Markham  heard  her  gasp  and 
looked  over  her  shoulder  through  the  aperture. 

"Olga!"  she  whispered  in  dismay. 

There  in  the  path  to  the  deep  wood,  smartly  attired 
in  gaiters,  a  short  skirt  and  Alpine  hat,  her  shotgun  in 
the  hollow  of  her  arm,  was  Nemesis.  She  came  up  the 
path  at  a  leisurely  gait,  and  stopped  not  a  hundred  feet 
away,  her  head  held  upon  one  side,  smiling  and  carelessly 
surveying  the  premises. 

Hermia  shrank  back  and  huddled  down  upon  the 
couch. 

"0  Philidor,  we're  lost " 

228 


NEMESIS 


But  he  caught  her  by  the  shoulder  and  hurried  her 
out  into  the  hall. 

"Up  the  ladder  quickly!  It's  our  only  chance. 
There's  a  window  in  the  gable  and  a  trellis.  I  saw  it 
a  while  ago.  You  must  go — that  way  when  I  get  her 
inside.  We'll  meet  at  Hauterire.  Leave  the  rest  to  me." 

And  while  she  went  up  he  returned  to  the  living 
room,  removed  the  most  obvious  traces  of  Hermia's  pres- 
ence, and,  as  the  trap  door  was  slid  down  into  its  place, 
dropped  into  the  nearest  armchair,  feigning  slumber. 
He  heard  Olga's  footsteps  as  she  prowled  around  the 
house  and  deluded  himself  for  a  moment  with  the  thought 
that  she  had  gone  on,  when  suddenly  he  saw  her  poking 
at  the  shutters,  which  she  finally  pressed  open  with  the 
butt  end  of  her  shotgun,  filling  the  room  with  sunlight  and 
revealing  the  prostrate  Markham,  who  started  up  in  a  dis- 
may which  needed  little  simulation. 

"Good  morning,  Philidor,"  said  she  quite  pleasantly. 

"Olga!" 

"Did  you  sleep  well  ?  What  a  sluggard  you  are !  Be- 
hold the  ant — learn  her  ways  and  do  likewise." 

He  rose,  and  through  the  window  offered  her  his 
hand.  But  she  waved  him  off  with  the  point  of  her  gun. 

"Not  so  fast,  my  young  friend!"  she  cried,  her  eyes 
meanwhile  swiftly  searching  the  room.  "You're  a 
poacher.  Will  you  surrender?" 

"By  all  means — at  discretion — if  you'll  please  not 
keep  pointing  that  plaguey  thing " 

She  raised  a  tiny  silver  object  suspended  around  her 
neck  by  a  silver  chain. 

"Don't  you  know  that  it's  my  duty  to  my  host  to 
whistle  for  the  keepers  to  come  and  take  you  before  the 
magistrate?" 

229 


MADCAP 

"Of  course.     Whistle  away." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to — at  least,  not  yet.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  first.  I'm  coming  in — with  your  permis- 
sion." 

"Charmed!"  he  said  with  a  gaiety  he  was  far  from 
feeling,  and  opened  the  door  with  a  fine  flourish.  "It's 
always  easy  to  be  hospitable  at  somebody  else's  expense," 
he  said. 

She  entered  without  ceremony,  gun  in  hand,  her  eyes, 
under  lowered  lids,  shifting  indolently,  yet  missing  noth- 
ing— the  pack  on  the  floor,  the  tumbled  couch,  and  Mark- 
ham's  familiar  pipe. 

"Quite  handsome,  I'd  say.  The  Count  always  had  an 
eye  for  the  picturesque." 

She  made  the  round  of  the  lower  floor,  carelessly  ob- 
servant of  its  arrangement,  while  Markham  followed  her, 
his  ears  straining  for  the  sounds  of  Hermia's  escape. 

"Are  your  friends  coming  here  ?"  he  asked. 

Olga  poked  the  muzzle  of  her  gun  into  a  cupboard. 
"Not  unless  I  whistle  for  them,  Monsieur,"  she  said 
slowly.  "They're  below  me  to  the  left.  We  have  rendez- 
vous at  the  lower  lodge.  Lucky,  isn't  it?" 

Markham's  eye  lit  hopefully. 

"I  am,  it  seems,  completely  at  your  mercy,"  he 
laughed. 

He  preceded  her  into  the  living  room  and  in  doing  so 
failed  to  note  the  brief  pause  she  made  beside  the  stairs 
to  the  loft,  upon  the  steps  of  which,  and  upon  the  floor 
beneath  them,  plainly  to  be  seen  were  a  number  of  small 
particles  of  mud,  broken  and  dried.  Nor  did  he  see  the 
quick  smile  of  triumph  replace  the  puzzled  look  with 
which  she  had  pursued  her  investigations.  She  followed 
him  in  and  with  a  sigh  of  content  dropped  into  a  chair 

230 


NEMESIS 


by  the  fireplace,  crossing  her  knees  and  leisurely  lighting 
a  cigarette. 

"Enfin,"  she  laughed.     "Here  we  are  again — thou  and 
I,  Monsieur  le  philosopke." 

He  shrugged. 

"At  your  pleasure,"  he  replied. 

She  examined  his  face  a  moment  before  she  went  on. 
And  then  softly: 

"Why  did  you  run  away  from  me  last  night?  You 
did,  you  know,  Philidor,  or  you  wouldn't  be  here." 

He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  insist — on  my  joining  your  house 
party." 

She  cast  a  glance  around  the  room  and  laughed. 

"It  seems  that  you've  already  done  so." 

"Er — a  mistake.  I  was  going  to  camp  in  the  woods, 
but  it  came  on  to  rain.  The  door  of  this  house  was  un- 
latched. So  I  walked  in — and  here  I  am." 

"Reasonable  enough.  It  did  rain.  I  remember.  And 
weren't  you  lonely  here?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said  easily,  "I  was  asleep." 

"And  I  woke  you.     What  a  pity !" 

"I'm  sure — I'm  delighted — if  you  don't  lead  me  to  the 
Chateau  de  Cahors  or  the  magistrate." 

"What  alternatives!  One  would  think,  John  Mark- 
ham,  that  you  were  really  an  enemy  of  society." 

"Society  with  the  small  S,  I  am.  I'm  never  less  alone 
than  when  by  myself." 

"Which  means  that  two  is  a  crowd?  Thanks.  I  shall 
tear  myself  away  in  a  moment,  but  not  until " 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Olga,"  he  whispered.  "You  know 
that  can't  mean  you." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  murmured  wistfully  in  a  low,  even 
231 


MADCAP 

voice,  her  gaze  on  the  andirons.  "You've  surely  given  me 
no  reasons  to  believe  that  you  cared  for  my  society.  I 
wrote  you  twice  from  New  York,  once  from  Paris  and 
once  from  Trouville,  and  you've  only  deigned  me  one  re- 
ply— such  a  reply — with  comments  upon  the  weather 
(upon  which  I  was  fully  informed),  and  a  hope  that  we 
might  meet  in  October  in  New  York.  It  was  sweet 
of  you,  John,  when  I  came  to  Europe  expressly  to  see 
you!" 

"Me?"  He  rose,  walked  the  length  of  the  room  and 
glanced  anxiously  out  of  the  window.  "Impossible!"  he 
said,  then  turned  and  stood  by  the  mantel,  his  back 
toward  the  door,  his  voice  tensely  subdued.  "See  here, 
Olga,  don't  you  think  it's  about  time  that  you  stopped 
making  fun  of  me — that  you  and  I  understood  each  other? 
For  some  reason,  after  a  few  years  of  acquaintance  you've 
suddenly  discovered  that  I  amuse  you.  Why,  I  don't 
know.  I'm  not  your  sort — not  the  sort  of  man  you'd  find 
worth  your  while  in  the  long  run,  and  you  know  it.  And 
I  don't  propose  to  be  caught  in  your  silken  mesh,  my  dear, 
to  be  left  to  dry  in  the  sun  when  you  find  some  other 
specimen  more  to  your  liking." 

Olga  laughed  silently,  her  head  away  from  him,  and 
Markham,  after  a  quick  glance  over  his  shoulder,  went 
on  whispering. 

"I  gave  you  my  friendship — freely,  unreservedly,  but 
you  weren't  satisfied  with  that.  Hardly!  You  wanted 
me  to  be  in  love  with  you.  There's  no  doubt  of  it."  He 
laughed.  "Oh,  anyone  else  would  have  done  as  well,  but  I 
happened  along  at  a  favorable  time — on  the  back  swing 
of  the  pendulum.  It  hurt  your  pride,  I  think,  that  one 
of  my  Arcadian  simplicity  should  fail  to  droop  where 
others,  more  sophisticated,  had  fallen  swiftly.  Perhaps 

232 


NEMESIS 


I,  too,  might  have  fallen  if  you  hadn't  warned  me  that 
you  had  no  heart.  You  did  me  that  kindness." 

He  stopped,  listening.  Olga's  ears,  too,  were  alert 
for  a  sound — a  tiny  sound  of  no  more  volume  than  that 
which  might  have  been  made  by  a  mouse  that  had  come 
from  overhead. 

"But  you  grew  weary  of  that,"  he  went  on  quietly. 
"You  wanted  something  to  happen.  Your  reputation  was 
at  state.  It  was  time  for  a  psychological  crisis  of  sorts 
— and  so  you  arranged  it — in  a  rose  garden." 

Olga  had  stopped  smiling  now  and  her  brows  were 
narrowing  painfully.  "You  have  no  right  to  speak  to 
me  so,"  she  murmured. 

"It's  true,"  he  finished.  "You  didn't  play  fair  and 
you  know  it." 

She  bent  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  gaze 
on  the  ashes. 

"You  hurt  me — John,"  she  whispered,  scarcely  audi- 
bly; "you  hurt  me — terribly." 

His  eyes  searched  her  keenly.  Her  head  drooped  to 
her  fingers,  which  pressed  her  temples  nervously.  If  he 
had  not  known  her  so  well  he  would  have  almost  been 
ready  to  believe  her  contrition  genuine.  But  in  a  moment 
she  straightened. 

"You  advise  me  not  to  hope,  then?"  she  murmured 
with  a  laugh. 

Doubt  fled.  She  was  mocking  him.  Her  very  pres- 
ence mocked  him.  The  rafters  saw  his  discomfiture, 
though  the  attic  heard  not.  Was  Hermia  gone?  He 
fidgeted  his  feet,  listening.  Olga  was  really  intolerable. 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  he  muttered.  "The  humor's  out 
of  the  thing." 

233 


MADCAP 

A  change,  subtle  and  undefined,  came  over  his  visitor's 
expression.  She  rose  imperturbably  and  walked  about, 
fingering  things,  reaching  at  last  the  book  case  next  to 
the  corridor,  and  slowly  abstracted  a  volume,  turning  its 
leaves  idly,  and,  facing  the  door,  spoke  with  perilous  dis- 
tinctness. 

"It  is  charming  here,  mon  ami,"  she  said  gaily.  "If  I 
had  sent  for  you,  things  could  not  have  been  more  agree- 
ably arranged.  It  is  so  long  since  we've  met.  And  I've 
missed  you  dreadfully.  It  mustn't  happen  again,  mon 
cher."  She  lowered  the  book  and  leaned  against  the  door 
jamb  dreamily.  "You  shall  remain  here  en  vagabond," 
she  went  on,  "and  I  will  visit  you,  bringing  you  crumbs 
from  the  rich  men's  table,  which  we  will  enjoy  a  deux. 
It  will  remind  us  of  those  days  at  Compiegne,  those  long 
days  of  sunshine  and  delight — of  the  moonlit  Oise,  and 
the  tiny  auberge  at  La  Croix  among  the  beeches,  which 
even  the  motorists  hadn't  yet  discovered.  But  even  La 
Croix  is  not  more  secluded  than  this.  This  lodge  is  sel- 
dom used.  No  one  shall  know — not  even  Madeleine  de 
Cahors." 

Markham  listened  dumbly  at  first  in  incomprehension 
and  then  in  amazement.  He  had  never  been  in  Compiegne 
with  Olga  or  anyone  else.  And  La  Croix —  — !  What 
was  she  about?  Her  purpose  came  to  him  slowly,  and 
with  the  revelation,  anger. 

He  covered  the  distance  between  them  in  a  step. 

"Silence,"  he  whispered,  aware  of  the  trap  door  about 
their  very  ears. 

She  smiled  up  into  his  face  sweetly. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  denying  next  that  you  were  ever 
in  Compiegne " 

"I  do." 

234 


NEMESIS 


'Or  that  you  would  have  married  me  last  summer  if 


"Olga !" 

"If  I  hadn't  been  wise  enough " 

"You're  mad!" 

She  drew  back  from  him,  her  eyes  wide,  but  she  had 
no  reply.  He  took  one  step  toward  her  and  then  stopped, 
impotent  before  her  frailness,  his  glance  wavering  toward 
the  door  into  the  loft  which  mutely  stared  at  him.  Her- 
mia  would  be  gone  by  now — she  must  have  gone.  The 
way  had  been  clear  for  twenty  minutes.  He  looked  away, 
and  then,  since  there  seemed  nothing  else  to  do,  he  laughed. 
But  Olga  didn't  seem  to  hear  him.  She  was  fingering  the 
shotgun  which  lay  beside  her  on  the  table. 

"Mad?  Perhaps  I  am,"  she  said  with  slow  distinct- 
ness. "Though  you're  the  last  one  in  the  world  who 
should  tell  me  so." 

She  picked  up  the  weapon  and,  before  he  had  really 
guessed  what  she  was  about,  calmly  discharged  one  of  its 
barrels  out  of  the  window. 

The  noise  was  deafening  and  the  silence  which  fol- 
lowed freighted  with  importance.  A  scraping  of  feet 
overhead,  a  rattle  of  loose  hinges,  and  a  frightened  face 
at  the  aperture.  Olga  Tcherny  turned,  took  a  step  or 
two  into  the  doorway,  glanced  upward  and  then  let  her 
astonished  gaze  fall  on  Markham,  who  was  peering  up, 
imploring  mutely. 

"You — and  Hermia!"  This  from  Olga,  who  had 
recovered  speech  with  difficulty.  "What  does  it  mean, 
John?" 

But  John  Markham  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his 
pockets  and  turned  his  back. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  repeated  distinctly.  "You 
235 


MADCAP 

and  Hermia — here?  I  hardly  understand "  But 

Markham,  looking  out  of  the  end  window,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  refusing  to  reply.  He  was  fuddled  with  misery, 
bewildered  by  the  turn  of  events  which  were  quite  beyond 
his  management. 

Another  long  pause,  during  which  he  was  conscious 
that  Hermia,  her  dignity  in  jeopardy,  was  descending  the 
ladder  and  now  faced  their  visitor,  a  fugitive  smile  upon 
her  lips,  pale  but  quite  composed. 

"Hello,  Olga,"  he  heard  her  say. 

The  Countess  Tcherny's  gaze  traveled  over  her  from 
head  to  heel,  the  gaze  of  one  who  looks  at  a  person  one 
has  never  seen  before.  She  looked  long  but  replied  not; 
then  her  chin  was  lowered  quickly  the  fraction  of  an  inch, 
after  which  she  raised  the  gun,  broke  it  and  threw  out 
the  shell  from  the  still  smoking  barrel. 

"Stupid  of  me,  wasn't  it?"  she  said  coolly.  "I  for- 
got it  was  loaded." 

"It's  lucky  you  didn't  hurt  yourself,"  said  Hermia. 

"Isn't  it?  Plow  dreadful,  Hermia,  if  I  had  peppered 
the  trap  door!" 

"I  rather  think  you  did,"  said  Hermia.  She  walked 
across  to  the  fireplace  with  a  queer  laugh.  "Well !  You've 
brought  down  the  game.  Now  whistle  for  your  dogs !" 

Olga's  face  was  quite  serious. 

"I'm  sure  that  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  you're 
talking  about.  Your  presence  is  surprising  enough " 

Hermia  looked  defiance. 

"Is  it?  Why?  You've  outwitted  me.  I'm  simply 
acknowledging  the  fact.  John  Markham  and  I  have  been 
traveling  together  for  a  week — as  you  perceive — en  vaga- 
bond. We  like  it.  It's  most  amusing.  Indiscreet?  Per- 
haps. If  so,  I'll  take  the  consequences.  Can  I  say  more?" 


NEMESIS 


Olga's  smile  came  slowly — with  difficulty.  The  bra- 
vado of  fear?  Or  of  indifference?  She  had  never  really 
measured  weapons  with  Hermia. 

"I'm  the  last  person  in  the  world  whose  censure  you 
need  fear,  my  dear,"  she  said  suavely. 

"I  don't  fear  it,"  said  Hermia  promptly.  "I'm  quite 
sure  I'd  rather  have  had  you  find  me  out  than  any  one  I 
know." 

Bravado  again. 

"I'm  glad,  darling,"  Olga  purred.  "It's  sweet  of  you 
to  say  so." 

"I  don't  mean  that  I  wanted  to  be  discovered.  If  I 
had  I  shouldn't  have  fled  from  the  roulotte  of  the  Fabi- 
ani  family  yesterday  when  you  were  looking  for  me.  You 
traced  us  from  Alen^on,  of  course " 

"I?     Why  should  I  follow  you?" 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea — unless  your  conversa- 
tion a  moment  ago  with  John  Markham  explains  it." 

"You  heard— that!" 

"Oh,  yes, — didn't  you  want  me  to?  I'm  not  deaf. 
But  you  needn't  be  at  all  worried  about  it."  She  paused 
and  brushed  the  dust  of  the  loft  from  her  coat  sleeve. 
"You  know,  Olga,  I  don't  believe  it — any  of  it." 

Olga  smiled  sagely,  but  Markham,  who  all  this  while 
had  been  standing  like  a  figure  of  wax,  now  showed  signs 
of  animation. 

"It  was  all  a  joke,  of  course,  Hermia,"  he  began, 
moving  forward.  "Olga  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that " 

But  Hermia  had  waved  him  into  silence. 

"Let  me  finish,"  she  insisted,  and  he  paused. 

"I  fancy  the  atmosphere  needs  clearing,"  she  went  on 
coolly,  "and  we  may  as  well  do  it  at  once.  As  I  re- 
marked a  few  moments  ago,  I  deny  nothing,  crave  no 

237 


MADCAP 

indulgences,  from  you,  Olga,  or  from  anyone.  I  cry 
peccavi.  But  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  feel  no 
regret.  Even  at  the  cost  of  this  denouement  I  should  not 
hesitate  to  seek  my  freedom — if  I  could  find  it  with  John 
Markham.  I  love  him.  And  he — do  let  me  finish,  Phili- 
dor, — he  loves  me.  So  there  you  are.  There's  nothing 
more  to  be  said.  What  could  one  say?" 

Olga  had  reached  the  door,  shrugging  her  shoulders 
very  prettily. 

"Nothing,  perhaps,  except  'good  day,'  "  she  laughed. 
"It  seems  that  I'm  de  trop.  I'll  go  at  once." 

At  the  door  she  paused.  "You  will  be  quite  secure 
from  interruption  here  to-day,  I  think.  When  you  go, 
take  to  the  forest  to  the  northward  and  you  should  get 
out  in  safety.  This  secret  is  delicious.  When  you  are  well 
out  of  harm's  way,  mes  amis,  I  shall  tell  it,  in  my  best 
manner,  at  the  dinner  table." 

She  waved  her  hand  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

GREAT   PAN    IS   DEAD 

AS  she  went  out  Markham  came  forward,  but  Hermia 
waved  him  aside,  and,  going  to  the  open  window, 
stood  silent,  her  head  bent  forward,  her  gaze 
fixed  on  Olga's  diminishing  back.  It  seemed  more  than 
usually  shapely,  that  back,  more  than  usually  careless 
and  disdainful.  Her  feet  spurned  the  ground  and  tripped 
lightly  among  the  grasses,  her  shoulders  swinging  easily, 
the  feather  in  her  hat  nodding,  mischievously  defiant. 
After  she  had  melted  into  the  thicket,  Hermia  still  stood 
watching  the  spot  where  she  had  disappeared.  But  Mark- 
ham,  no  longer  to  be  denied,  came  from  behind  and  caught 
her  around  the  waist. 

"It's  true,  Hermia,"  he  whispered,  "you  love ?" 

Her  brow  had  been  deep  in  thought,  and  at  first  it 
had  not  seemed  that  she  heard  him  or  felt  his  arms  about 
her,  but  as  his  lips  touched  her  cheek  she  sprang  away, 
her  eyes  blazing  at  him. 

"You!"  As  she  brushed  the  cheek  his  lips  touched: 
"Hardly,"  scornfully,  and  then,  with  a  laugh,  "I  lied, 
that's  all." 

"I'll  not  believe  it.     You  love  me " 

"No.     I  detest  you." 
He  saw  a  light. 

"You  heard.    You  believe  that  Olga  and  I " 

"I'm  not  a  fool.     One  lives  and  one  learns." 
He  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  as  one  does  a  child, 
239 


MADCAP 

the  impulse  in  him  strong  to  shake  her,  his  heart  deny- 
ing it. 

"She  knew  you  were  listening  all  the  while.  Can't 
you  understand?  That  was  her  game.  She  played  it — 
for  you.  I've  never  been  in  Compiegne " 

"Let  me  go " 

"No.  Not  until  you  look  in  my  eyes.  You  love  me. 
You've  told  her  so  and  me " 

"I  lied.     It  was  necessary " 

"Why?" 

She  struggled,  but  would  not  look  at  him.     "Let  me 

go." 

"No.     Why  did  you  say  that  unless " 

"The  situation — demanded  it,"  she  panted.  "She  had 
to  understand " 

"The  truth " 

"No — not  the  truth.  She  could  not  have  understood 
the  truth — so  I  lied  to  her — lied  to  her." 

And  with  a  supreme  effort  she  wrenched  away,  put- 
ting the  table  between  them. 

"Oh,"  she  gasped  furiously.  "That  I  could  ever  have 
believed  in  you!" 

But  her  anger  failed  to  dismay  him.  There  was  a 
pause  during  which  their  glances  clashed,  hers  flashing, 
contemptuous — his  keen,  intent  and  a  trifle  amused. 

"Why  did  you  stay — up  there — when  the  way  was 
clear  to  the  forest." 

Her  eyes  opened  a  little  wider. 

"I — I  was  afraid  to  go." 

"Afraid!  Perhaps.  But  that  wasn't  the  only  thing 
that  kept  you " 

"What  then?"  indifferently. 

"Curiosity." 

240 


GREAT  PAN  IS  ftEAD 


"About  what?" 

"Me." 

"Oh!"  scornfully. 

"It's  true.  You  wanted  to  hear  what  passed  between 
us.  I  thought  you  had  gone.  Olga  knew  you  hadn't. 
She  was  the  cleverest  of  us  all,  you  see." 

"It  hasn't  made  the  slightest  difference." 

He  reached  her  in  a  stride. 

"You  love  me,"  he  laughed.  "I  know  it  now."  'And 
as  she  still  turned  from  him :  "And  you'll  marry  me,  too, 
Hermia." 

"Never !" 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "you'll  marry  me.  There  isn't 
anything  else  for  you  to  do." 

She  was  dumb  with  surprise  and  could  only  gasp  with 
rage,  but  before  she  could  speak  he  had  released  her,  and, 
catching  up  his  hat  from  the  table,  was  out  of  the  door 
and  on  his  way  to  the  stable. 

He  laughed  up  at  the  sky.  Subterfuge  could  not 
avail  her  now.  He  had  learned  the  truth.  Neither  mock- 
ery, scorn  nor  any  other  pretence  could  divert  the  genial 
current  of  his  soul.  She  loved  him.  And,  whatever  he 
had  shown  of  mastery  in  her  presence,  his  precious  knowl- 
edge made  him  suddenly  strangely  gentle  in  his  thoughts 
of  her.  The  sky  smiled  back  at  him  from  over  the  leafy 
glades  of  the  Comte  de  Cahors,  and,  as  his  gaze  sought 
the  spot  in  the  woods  where  a  moment  ago  Olga  had  dis- 
appeared, a  sober  look  came  into  his  eyes.  Tell?  Would 
she?  Would  Olga  tell?  He  didn't  believe  it.  He  had 
learned  many  things.  Olga  kindled  her  altar  fires  not 
for  the  warmth  of  them,  but  for  their  incense,  the  odor 
of  which  was  breath  to  her  nostrils.  The  symbols  of  love 
— not  love  itself — what  could  Olga  know  of  love?  He 


MADCAP 

knew — and  Hermla?  Hermia  knew,  for  he  had  taught 
her. 

He  filled  his  bucket  at  the  well  and  sought  Clarissa, 
who  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  satiety.  She  had  eaten 
until  she  could  eat  no  more.  Watered,  he  led  her  back 
to  the  lodge,  fastened  his  hitching  strap  at  the  door  and 
went  inside,  his  own  appetite  advising  him  that  neither 
he  nor  Hermia  had  eaten  since  yesterday  afternoon.  His 
companion  had  huddled  into  a  chair  and  was  gazing  into 
the  fireplace.  She  did  not  offer  to  continue  their  conver- 
sation, nor  did  he.  And  so  he  got  out  his  spirit  lamp  and 
made  coffee,  unpacked  some  chicken  sandwiches,  and,  help- 
ing himself  freely  to  the  crockery  of  the  Marquis,  pres- 
ently served  the  breakfast. 

She  would  not  eat  at  first  and  he  did  not  insist  upon 
her  doing  so,  but  sat  comfortably,  and  in  a  moment  was 
smacking  his  lips.  The  coffee  was  excellent — the  best 
that  could  be  had  in  Alencon,  and  its  odor  was  delicious. 
He  saw  from  where  he  sat  her  eyes  shifting  uncertainly. 
He  drained  his  cup  with  a  great  sigh  of  content,  set  it 
down  upon  the  saucer  and  was  in  the  act  of  pouring  out 
another  helping  for  himself  when  she  rose  and  reached 
forward  quickly,  appetite  triumphant. 

"I'd  better  eat,  I  suppose,"  she  said  jerkily. 

He  smiled  politely  and  handed  her  the  sandwiches, 
noting  from  the  tail  of  his  eye  that  several  times  during 
the  meal  her  look  sought  his  face  for  an  explanation  of 
his  change  of  manner,  which,  not  being  forthcoming,  she 
sat  rather  demurely  at  her  meat,  emptying  the  pot  of 
coffee  and  finishing  the  last  of  the  bread  and  chicken. 
Markham  would  have  smiled  if  he  had  dared!  What 
chance  had  any  of  the  lighter  passions  against  the  crav- 
ing hunger  of  the  healthy  young  animal?  It  was  another 


GREAT   PAN   IS   DEAD 


triumph  of  his  philosophy,  almost  its  greatest — Nature 
at  a  bound  eliminating  art  and  the  feminine  calculus. 
When  he  had  finished  eating,  without  a  word  he  rose,  and 
went  out  to  pack  Clarissa,  and  while  he  was  thus  en- 
gaged Hermia  passed  him  silently  with  a  bucket  on  the 
}~wa.y  to  the  pump  for  water,  and  in  another  moment  he 
was  aware  that  she  was  washing  the  dishes.  He  made 
no  effort  to  help  her,  but  sat  on  the  door-sill,  thoughtfully 
smoking  his  pipe. 

She  came  out  in  a  moment  and  announced  that  she 
was  ready  to  go,  and  he  saw  that  breakfast  had  done  her 
no  harm.  So  they  followed  Olga  Tcherny's  instructions 
as  far  as  he  remembered  them  and  found  a  path  through 
the  woods  which  led  northward.  Clarissa  had  so  gorged 
herself  with  the  stolen  fodder  (which  may  have  been 
sweeter  on  that  account)  that  Markham  had  to  cut  a  new 
goad  to  speed  her  upon  her  way.  They  kept  a  watch 
ahead  and  behind  them,  and  emerged  as  Olga  had  prophe- 
sied without  adventure  or  accident  through  a  hole  in  a 
hedge  upon  a  highroad,  along  which,  still  bending  their 
steps  northward,  they  took  their  way. 

Markham's  silence  had  a  double  meaning.  They  were 
at  odds  just  now.  A  while  back  Hermia  had  starved  for 
food.  He  meant  now  that  she  should  starve  for  company. 
He  wanted  to  think,  too,  to  analyze  and  weigh  his  own 
culpability  in  the  situation  where  they  now  found  them- 
selves. The  imprudence  of  their  venture  had  not  seemed 
to  matter  so  much  back  at  Evreux,  where  accident  had 
thrown  them  together  and  Hermia  had  linked  her  fate  to 
his.  She  had  been  little  more  to  him  then  than  an  ex- 
traordinarily interesting  specimen  of  a  genus  he  little 
understood,  a  rebellious  slave  of  convention  who  had 
shown  him  the  shackles  which  galled  her  wrists  and  had 


MADCAP 

pleaded  with  him  very  prettily  to  help  her  strike  them 
off.  Could  any  man  have  refused  her?  And  yet  he  had 
known  from  that  hour  that  a  retribution  of  some  sort 
awaited  them  both — Hermia,  for  ignoring  her  code ;  him- 
self, for  having  permitted  her  to  ignore  it.  There  was  a 
difference  now — a  difference  which  their  discovery  by  an 
outsider  had  made  unpleasantly  manifest.  De  Folligny's 
appearance  at  Verneuil  had  made  Markham  thoughtful, 
but  Olga's  intrusion  now  had  paraphrased  their  pastoral 
lyric  into  unworthy  prose.  Parnassus  wept  with  them, 
but  no  amount  of  weeping  could  destroy  the  ugly  doggerel 
as  Olga  had  written  it.  Their  idyl  was  smirched,  the 
fair  robe  of  Euterpe  was  trailing  in  the  dust. 

But  it  was  too  late  for  reproaches  now.  The  mischief 
was  done  ard  one  thing  only  left — to  emerge  with  as  good 
a  grace  as  possible  from  a  doubtful  position.  As  the  mo- 
ments passed  it  became  more  clear  to  Markham  in  which 
way  his  duty  lay — and  the  more  he  thought  of  it,  the 
more  he  was  convinced  that  it  lay  out  of  Vagabondia. 
Hermia  must  go — this  very  day — and  he — to  beard  their 
pretty  tigress. 

The  shadow  of  his  thoughts  fell  upon  his  brows,  and 
to  Hermia,  who  watched  him,  when  she  could  do  so  unob- 
served, he  presented  a  countenance  upon  which  gloom  sat 
heavily  enthroned. 

Had  he  spoken  his  thoughts  as  they  came  to  him  she 
could  not  have  read  him  more  easily;  and,  as  Markham 
gloomed,  her  own  mood  lightened.  Though  she  spoke  not, 
a  dull  fire  slumbered  in  her  eye  which  boded  him  mischief. 
Disaster  had  befallen — and  some  one  was  to  pay  for  it; 
but  his  bent  head  was  unaware  of  the  smile  that  suddenly 
grew,  a  pale  wintry  smile  which  matched  the  devil  in  her 
eyes. 

244 


GREAT  PAN  IS   DEAD 


They  camped  in  the  mellow  afternoon  under  the  trees 
upon  a  rugged  mountain  that  guarded  the  defile,  through 
which  a  rushing  torrent,  one  of  the  tributaries  of  the 
Oire,  dashed  over  the  rocks  on  its  swift  course  to  Argen- 
tan.  Below  them  in  the  valley  were  a  village  and  a  rail- 
road along  which  a  tiny  passenger  train  was  slowly  pro- 
ceeding. Markham  eyed  the  train  with  a  grave  and  mel- 
ancholy interest.  They  both  observed  that  it  stopped  in 
the  village  to  let  off  and  take  on  passengers.  He  built  his 
fire  with  great  deliberateness,  gloomy  and  silent  as  though 
performing  a  last  rite  for  one  departed,  and  ate  solemnly, 
his  face  long. 

At  last  she  could  stand  the  stress  of  him  no  longer  and 
burst  suddenly  into  a  fit  of  laughter  which  echoed  madly 
among  the  rocks. 

"Oh  John  Markham!"  she  cried.  "Why  so  triste? 
The  melancholy  sweetness  of  seeing  Olga  again?" 

"No,"  he  replied  calmly.  "I  was  thinking — of  other 
things." 

"What?" 

A  smile  broke  over  his  lips.  He  had  been  right.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  world  that  a  woman  has  greater  pains 
to  endure  than  silence.  He  had  starved  her  out. 

He  didn't  reply  at  once,  and  that  angered  her. 

"Must  I  plead  with  you  even  for  speech?"  she  asked 
satirically.  "Has  it  come  to  this?  Will  you  not  smile 
and  throw  a  crumb  of  comfort  to  your  bond-woman?" 

"I  have  had  nothing  to  say — until  now,"  he  replied, 
very  quietly,  over  his  coffee  cup. 

She  only  laughed  at  him  and  swept  the  ground  with  a 
low  curtesy. 

"Thy  slave  listens.  Speak!  To  what  decision  has 
my  lord  and  master  arrived?"  she  asked. 


'  He  swallowed  his  coffee  deliberately,  unsmiling,  his 
gaze  over  the  valley  where  the  railroad  track  wormed  its 
way  into  the  North. 

"That  you're  to  go  to  your  friends  in  Paris — at 
once,"  he  said  decisively. 

And  while  she  watched  him  scornfully,  the  slow  fire  in 
her  eyes  burning  suddenly  into  brightness,  he  took  from 
his  pocket  a  wallet  she  had  never  seen  before,  and  counted 
out  upon  the  ground  some  money. 

"This,"  he  continued  calmly,  "is  yours.  You  have 
earned  it.  I  have  kept  count.  I  will  owe  you,  too — what 
is  realized  from  the  sale  of — of  Clarissa.  Or,  if  you  pre- 
fer it,  I  will  pay  you  that  now.  I  hope  you  will  find  the 
arrangement  satisfactory." 

He  had  arrested  her  mockery  and  she  stood  silent 
while  he  spoke,  her  gaze  upon  the  ground.  But  her  mood 
broke  forth  again  with  even  greater  virulence. 

"So  you  want  to  be  rid  of  me,  Monsieur  mon  Maitre — 
cancel  my  indentures — end  my  apprenticeship  to  the 
school  of  life — turn  me  adrift  in  a  wicked  world,  which 
already  treats  me  none  too  kindly.  Is  it  wise,  I  say?  Is 
it  kind,  is  it  human — just  because  a  woman  crosses  our 
path  and  threatens  my  reputation?  Look  at  me.  Am  I 
not  the  same  that  I  was  before?  How  have  I  fallen  in 
your  graces  ?  You,  who  professed  a  while  ago  to  love  me 
— oh,  so  madly?" 

He  was  silent  and  would  not  look  at  her. 

"Or  is  it  me  that  you  fear,  mon  cher?"  she  taunted 
him.  "Is  it  that  I've  learned  too  well  your  lessons  ?  That 
I've  foresworn  the  conventions  which  stifled  me,  the  code 
which  enslaved  me,  that  I've  earned  at  last  my  right  to 
live  unbound,  untrammeled — with  no  code  but  the  love  of 
life,  no  law  but  that  of  my  own  instincts — is  it  because 

246 


GREAT  PAN  IS  DEAD 


of  this  that  you  deny  me?  O  John  Markham!  What  be- 
comes of  your  fine  philosophy?  And  of  your  natural 
laws?  Do  they  fall,  with  me,  before  the  first  challenge 
from  the  world  they  profess  to  ignore?  It  is  to  laugh." 

While  she  vented  her  joy  of  him  he  rose  and  faced 
her,  but  she  did  not  flinch.  Her  voice  only  dropped  a 
tone,  and  now  derided,  mocked  and  cajoled. 

"Do  you  fear  me  so  much,  Monsieur  le  Maitre?"  she 
laughed.  "Is  it  that  I  love  you  too  much  to  love  you 
wisely?  Why  should  you  care,  mon  ami?  Is  it  not  the 
lot  of  women  to  give — always  to  give?" 

Still  he  turned  away  from  her,  his  hands  fast  in  his 
pockets,  but  a  warning  murmur  broke  from  his  lips.  She 
did  not  hear  it  and,  coming  around  behind  him,  clasped 
her  fingers  upon  his  arms. 

"If  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not  love  you,  mon  ami,  will 
not  that  be  enough — enough  to  satisfy  you  that  my  hap- 
piness is  not  in  danger?  If  I  do  not  love  you,  what  can 
you  fear  for  me?  Why  should  I  care  what  the  world 
thinks  of  us?  Have  I  reproached  you?  Did  I  not  give 
myself  into  your  keeping,  without " 

He  turned  and  caught  her  into  his  arms  and  stopped 
her  mockery  with  kisses,  the  man  in  him  triumphant, 
while  she  struggled,  her  lips  denied  him,  dumb  and  quiv- 
ering in  his  arms. 

"Now  perhaps  you  know  .  .  .  why  it  is  that  you 
must  go,"  he  whispered.  "Read  it  here.  I'm  mad  for 
you,  Hermia — that  is  why.  I  can't  any  longer  be  with 
you  without  reaching  forth  to  take  you  .  .  .  you're 
mine  by  every  law  of  God  or  Nature.  Philosophy !  Who 
cares?  Your  lips  have  babbled  it.  Let  them  babble  it 
now — if  they  dare " 

"Let  me  go,  Philidor,"  she  gasped. 
247 


MADCAP 

"No,  not  yet.  I've  much  to  say  and  only  this  hour 
to  say  it  in,  for  in  a  while  you  shall  go  and  I  will  stay 
with  Pan  and  mourn.  The  woods  will  sigh  of  you,  for 
you  will  be  a  nymph  no  longer.  But  before  you  go  you 
shall  look  love  in  the  eyes  and  see — love  full  grown  and 
masterful — here  among  the  everlasting  rocks — love  so 
great  that  you  shall  be  afraid  and  mock  not.  Look  up. 
Look  in  my  eyes " 

"No!     No!" 

"You  love  me." 

"No!" 

"You  love  me." 

"N— no!" 

As  she  protested  he  took  her  lips,  pale  lips  that  would 
have  mocked  again,  yet  dared  not,  for  her  eyes  had  stolen 
a  glance  through  half-closed  lashes  and  learned  that  what 
he  said  was  true.  The  warm  color  flooded  upward,  stain- 
ing crimson  beneath  the  tan,  and  her  body  which  had  re- 
laxed for  a  moment  under  the  gust  of  his  ardor  protested 
anew. 

"Let  me  go,  Philidor.  I — It  must  not  be — can't  you 
understand?  Would  you  justify  them — what  they  say  of 
us?  Oh,  let  me  go.  Let  me " 

She  wrenched  away  from  him  and  stood  gasping,  Olga 
Tcherny's  last  laughter  singing  in  her  ears. 

"You've  justified  her — justified  her,"  she  almost 
sobbed,  "robbed  me  of  my  right  to  look  her  in  the  eyes — 
as  I  could  do  this  morning.  Why  did  you  kiss  me — like 
that — Philidor?  Oh,  you've  spoiled  it  all — spoiled  it  for 
us  both.  Why  couldn't  you  have  let  things  be — as  they 
were — so  gentle — so  sweet — so  sane  !" 

"You  mocked  at  love,"  he  muttered. 

"Oh,  that  I  should  have  misjudged  you  so.  You  who 
248 


GREAT   PAN  IS   DEAD 


were  so  strong — so  kind !  Who  ruled  me  with  gentleness  1 
and  now " 

"You've  tried  me  too  far." 

She  had ;  and  she  knew  it.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  skurry  for  the  wings  of  convention.  Alas,  for 
Pan!  Hermia  was  a  nymph  no  longer — only  a  girl  of 
the  cities,  upon  the  defensive  for  the  security  of  her  tra- 
ditions. She  drew  aside  and  sank  breathless  upon  a  rock. 

"Love  is  not  so  ruthless — it  does  not  shock  or  sear, 
John  Markham,"  she  gasped. 

"I've  served  you  patiently — and  long,"  he  muttered. 

"A  week." 

"It's  enough." 

"No." 

"You'll  marry  me." 

She  raised  her  head  and  met  his  eyes  fairly. 

"No.     I  refuse  you." 

He  could  not  understand. 

"You " 

"I  refuse  to  marry  you.    Is  that  clear?"  she  cried. 

What  had  come  over  her?  The  warm  color  had 
flooded  back  to  her  heart  and  her  eyes  were  cold  like  dead 
embers. 

"I  won't  believe  you,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"You  must.  It  was  a  mistake — all  this — a  mistake 
from  the  first.  I  was  mad  to  have  followed  you.  You 
should  have  denied  me — then — back  there 

"I  loved  you  then — I  know  it  now — and  you " 

"No — not  love,  John  Markham,"  she  went  on.  "If 
you  had  loved  me  you  would  have  sent  me  back  to  Paris 
— saved  me  from — from  myself.  You  loved  me  then,  you 
say,"  she  laughed  scornfully.  "What  kind  of  love  is  this 
that  slinks  in  hiding,  preaches  of  friendship  for  its  own 

249 


MADCAP 

ends  and  rants  of  philosophy?  What  kind  of  love  that 
scoffs  at  public  opinion  and  finds  itself  at  last  a  topic  of 
amusement  at  a  fashionable  dining  table?  A  selfish  love, 
a  nameless  love  from  which  all  tenderness,  all  gentleness 
and  beauty " 

"Hermia !"  He  had  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  and 
held  her  gaze  with  his  own. 

"Let  me  go.  It's  true.  And  you  ask  me  to  marry 
you.  Why  should  you  marry  me  when  you  can  win  my 
lips  without  it?" 

She  laughed  up  at  him,  a  hard  little  laugh,  like  a 
buffet  in  his  face.  Still  he  held  her — away  from  him. 

"Your  lips  are  mine,"  he  said  gently,  "I  could  take 
them  now — again  and  again.  But  I  will  not.  See.  I  am 
all  tenderness  again.  Your  words  cannot  harm  me — nor 
yourself.  For  love  is  greater  than  either  of  us.  It  is  the 
secret  you  once  asked  of  me,  the  secret  of  life.  I've  told 
it  to  you.  I  tell  it  to  you  now — when  I  let  you  go." 

Her  color  came  and  went  and  her  eyes  drooped  before 
him.  He  dropped  his  hands,  turned  his  back  and  walked 
away. 

"That  is  my  reply,"  he  said  softly. 

Could  he  have  seen  the  glory  that  rode  suddenly  in 
her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him,  he  would  have  read  the 
heart  of  her.  But  that  was  not  to  be.  Followed  a  silence. 
He  would  not  trust  himself  again.  The  embers  of  their 
fire  still  smoked.  With  his  foot  he  crushed  them  out. 

"You  will  go,  at  once,  to  Paris,"  he  said  quietly,  not 
looking  at  her. 

She  did  not  move,  or  reply,  and  only  watched  him  as 
he  made  the  preparations  for  departure.  They  went  down 
the  hill  to  the  village  in  silence,  Markham  leading  Clarissa 
at  his  side.  At  the  gare  a  train  was  due  in  half  an  hour, 

250 


GREAT  PAN  IS  VEAD 


and  so  they  sat  and  waited,  looking  straight  before  them, 
no  word  passing,  and  when  the  train  came  he  found  a  com- 
partment and  put  her  in  it,  with  her  bundle,  then  stood 
with  head  uncovered,  until  a  stain  of  smoke  above  the 
trees  was  all  that  remained  to  him.  Presently  that,  too, 
vanished,  when  soberly  he  took  up  his  cudgel  and  went  his. 
way. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 
A   LADY   IN   THE   DUSK 

HALFWAY   between   the   turbid   currents    of   the 
lower  city  and  the  more  swiftly  running  streams 
to  the  northward  sits  Washington  Square,  an 
isle  of  rest  amid  the  tides   of  humanity  which  lap  its 
shores. 

Here  is  the  true  gateway  to  the  city — below  it  the 
polyglot  of  Europe;  above,  the  amalgam  which  makes 
America.  It  is  a  neighborhood  of  traditions  which  speak 
in  the  aspect  of  the  solidly  built  row  of  houses  facing  to 
the  south,  breasting  the  living  surge,  its  front  unbroken. 
This  park,  with  its  stretch  of  green,  its  dusky  maples  and 
shaded  benches,  afforded  asylum  to  Markham,  the  painter, 
who  liked  to  come  when  the  day's  work  was  over  and  watch 
the  shadows  fall  across  the  square,  creeping  slowly  up  the 
walls  of  the  Arch,  bringing  into  higher  relief  the  rosy 
tints  on  cornice  and  medallion  which  remained  animate  a 
moment  against  the  purple  filagree  beyond,  a  thing  of  joy 
and  of  beauty,  a  symbol  of  eternal  freedom.  He  was 
never  sure  whether  it  was  more  wonderful  then,  or  when 
a  moment  later  the  golden  glory  gone  from  its  cap,  it 
stood  silent  amid  the  roar  of  the  city  wrapped  in  pallid 
dignity  at  the  end  of  the  glittering  Avenue.  That  Avenue 
was  a  symbol,  too.  It  meant  the  world  to  which  Markham 
had  returned  after  his  glimpse  of  Elysium,  a  world  not 
too  kind,  already  laughing  perhaps  at  his  secret  and  Her- 
mia's. 

252 


A   LADY   IN   THE   DUSK 

His  problem  still  puzzled  him.  He  had  had  no  word 
from  Olga  Tcherny,  though  he  had  sought  her  in  Alen9on 
and  Trouville.  She  had  gone  to  Paris,  he  had  been  in- 
formed, but  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  her  there  in  her 
usual  haunts. 

Nor  had  he  succeeded  in  finding  Hermia,  though  he  had 
left  no  stone  unturned  in  the  search.  He  had  watched 
the  hotel  registers,  inquired  at  her  bankers,  and  scanned 
the  sailing  lists  in  vain.  Had  the  earth  engulfed  them 
both  they  could  not  have  more  mysteriously  disappeared. 

Cables  to  New  York  had  been  unavailing,  and  at  last, 
his  time  growing  short,  he  had  sailed  from  Cherbourg,  a 
sadder  but  no  wiser  man.  A  call  at  the  Challoner  house 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  Avenue  had  only  produced  the  in- 
formation that  the  person  he  so  eagerly  sought  had  not 
yet  returned,  and  that,  in  default  of  instructions  to  the 
contrary,  her  mail  was  forwarded,  as  before,  to  Paris. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait,  and  Markham  be- 
came aware  that  love,  in  addition  to  being  all  the  things 
that  he  and  Hermia  had  described  it,  was  a  grievous  hun- 
ger which  would  feed  upon  no  food  but  itself.  He  was 
quite  wretched,  painted  abominably  by  day  and  prowled 
in  the  streets  by  night,  his  disembodied  spirit  off  among 
the  highways  of  Vagabondia. 

November  came,  and  still  no  letter  nor  any  word  of 
her.  He  was  desperate.  Her  silence,  at  first  only  disap- 
pointing, now  became  ominous.  Whatever  their  mis- 
understandings in  the  last  hour  of  their  pilgrimage,  he 
deserved  something  better  of  her  than  this.  Here  in  New 
York  it  already  seemed  difficult  to  visualize  her.  He  could 
see  nothing  but  the  belled  cap  and  coarse  stockings  of 
Yvonne,  the  "woman  orchestra."  They  filled  his  eye  as 
her  essence  filled  his  heart.  The  broadcloth  and  beaver  of 

253 


MADCAP  ' 

her  metropolitan  sisters  puzzled  and  dismayed  him.  He 
had  only  seen  her  once  in  town  and  then  she  had  resem- 
bled nothing  so  much  as  a  flippant  cherub  in  skirts — an 
example  of  how  New  York  taught  the  young  female  idea 
to  shoot.  It  hadn't  been  the  kind  of  shooting  he  had 
liked.  Thimble  Island  had  individualized  her — differ- 
ently; Westport  had  given  her  color;  but  it  was  Nor- 
mandy that  had  completed  the  human  document.  She 
was  Hermia,  that  was  all!  But  here  in  New  York,  with 
Vagabondia  but  a  memory,  he  was  not  sure  that  he  would 
know  her.  The  Avenue  was  full  of  young  female  ideas  in 
the  process  of  shooting,  all  dressed  very  much  alike,  all 
flippant,  all  cherubic,  and  he  scanned  them  with  a  new 
interest,  wondering  at  the  lapse  of  circumstance  which 
somehow  could  not  be  bridged.  Yvonne  tailor  made! 
The  thing  was  impossible. 

And  yet  he  found  it  necessary  to  realize  that  here  in 
New  York  it  was  to  be  no  Yvonne  that  he  would  find. 
Her  silence,  too,  now  advised  him  that  she  was  to  be  upon 
the  defensive,  all  her  armor  bristling  with  commonplace, 
against  which  the  flight  of  his  quiver  of  memorabilia 
might  be  dented  in  vain.  How  was  she  thinking  of  him 
yonder?  In  what  terms?  Did  she  think  of  him  at  all? 
His  questions  had  even  descended  to  that  low  condition. 
He  had  had  such  a  little  share  in  her  life  after  all,  her  real 
life  in  the  cities,  which  laid  its  impress  with  such  certainty 
on  those  who  were  its  children.  He  saw  the  marks  of  it 
all  about  him,  the  thing  one  called  "good  form,"  the  un- 
dercurrent of  strife  for  social  honor,  the  corrugated  brow 
of  envy,  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  spilled  riches^ — ah ! 
here  was  where  his  shoe  would  pinch  him  the  most.  For 
Hermia  Challoner  was  wealthy  beyond  the  touch  of 
Midas.  If  the  Westport  house  or  her  taste  in  automobiles 


LADY   IN   THE   DUSK 


had  not  been  green  in  his  memory,  it  only  remained  to  him 
to  view  the  stately  splendor  of  the  Challoner  mansion  up 
town  to  be  reminded  that  his  vagabond  companion  of  a 
week  rightfully  belonged  to  another  world  in  which  he  was 
only  a  reluctant  and  somewhat  captious  visitor.  Her 
riches  bewildered  him.  They  obtruded  unbearably,  pro- 
claiming their  importance  in  terms  which  there  was  no 
denying.  Vagabondia,  it  seemed,  was  a  forgotten  country. 

Had  Hermia  forgotten?  Was  his  idyl,  the  one  dream 
of  his  life,  to  end  in  waking?  Was  Hermia's  mad  excur- 
sion but  another  item  in  the  long  list  of  entertainments 
by  means  of  which  she  exacted  from  life  payment  in  di- 
version which  she  considered  her  due?  Had  he,  Markham, 
been  but  an  incident  in  this  entertainment,  an  humble  sec- 
ond-liner like  Luigi  Fabiani,  who  broke  stones  upon  his 
mighty  brother  and  caught  the  infant  Stella  when  she  was 
hurled  at  him?  The  thought  was  unpleasant  to  him,  and 
did  his  lady  no  honor  —  so  he  dismissed  it  with  reserva- 
tions. But,  whatever  unction  he  laid  to  his  soul,  the  truth 
would  not  be  downed  that  two  months  had  elapsed  since 
that  parting  in  the  railway  station  at  Sees  during  which 
time  he  had  neither  heard  from  nor  of  her. 

One  comfort  he  had  when  hope  was  at  low  ebb  —  the 
vision  of  a  pale  face  at  a  trap-door,  its  eyes  wide  in  con- 
cern —  Hermia's  face  when  Olga's  fowling  piece  was  dis- 
charged; two  comforts  —  the  memory  of  the  roses  of  Pere 
Guegou  !  Both  gave  him  joy  —  and  reconciled  him  to  her 
present  intolerance  which  time  and  an  ardor  which  knew 
no  abating  must  wipe  away.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Olga! 

This  was  a  most  exasperating  if,  a  heart-wracking  if, 
an  if  that  made  him  pause  among  the  ruins  of  his  ancient 
friendship.  He  could  not  believe  that  it  was  altogether 
to  chance  that  he  and  Hermia  owed  Olga's  discovery  of 

255 


MADCAP 

their  strange  intimacy.  In  his  infatuation  he  had  forgot- 
ten that  the  Chateau  de  Cahors  was  near  Alen9on  and  that 
here  was  a  spot  which  should  at  any  costs  have  been 
avoided.  Hermia  must  have  known,  too,  and  yet  it  seems 
they  had  both  rushed  to  their  danger  with  a  heedlessness 
which  deserved  no  better  fate.  But  their  pursuit  and  the 
certainty  with  which  Olga  provided  the  culminating 
drama  created  a  belief,  in  his  own  mind,  at  least,  that  had 
he  and  Hermia  been  in  Kamschatka,  their  discomfiture 
would  have  been  just  as  surely  accomplished.  If  Olga's 
motives  still  remained  shrouded  in  mystery,  it  was  clear 
that  her  object  had  been  to  bring  their  companionship  to 
an  end,  and  this  she  had  done,  though  not  precisely  in  the 
way  that  she  had  planned.  Hermia  hadn't  believed  that 
rot  about  La  Croix  and  Compiegne.  Olga  had  overshot 
the  mark.  Her  pleasantry  with  the  loaded  shotgun  had 
been  better  aimed  and  her  frightened  game  had  fallen.  It 
angered  him  to  think  how  ruthless  had  been  her  plan,  me- 
diaeval in  its  simplicity,  and  how  successful  she  had  been 
in  carrying  it  out.  As  to  her  motives — Hermia  had  in- 
sisted that  Olga  wanted  to  marry  him !  Olga  and  he ! 

With  a  muttered  word  Markham  rose  from  his  bench 
and  made  his  way  toward  the  Arch.  Its  phase  of  splen- 
dor had  passed,  for  the  dusk  had  fallen  swiftly,  but  its 
bulk  loomed  in  ghostly  grandeur,  a  solemn  sentinel  at  the 
meeting  place  of  East  and  West.  The  street  lights  were 
winking  merrily  and  brougham  and  limousine  passed  be- 
neath it,  moving  rapidly  northward.  With  the  setting 
of  the  sun  a  chill  had  fallen  on  the  wonderful  day  of  In- 
dian summer  and  people  moved  briskly  on  their  homeward 
way.  Markham  buttoned  his  light  overcoat  across  his 
chest  and  bent  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  his  apartment, 

256 


'A   LADY  IN   THE   DUSK 

when  at  the  corner  of  the  Avenue  he  found  his  way  blocked 
by  a  solitary  female  person  in  fashionable  attire  who  for 
some  reason  was  laughing  gaily. 

He  stopped,  awakened  suddenly  to  the  fact  that  the 
lady  of  his  dreams  was  before  him. 

"O  Monsieur  Philidor!"  she  laughed.  "Well  met, 
upon  my  word!  Have  you  waited  for  me  long?" 

"Olga!" 

"The  same — flushed  with  victory  over  the  passing 
years,  joyous,  too,  at  the  sight  of  you.  I  counted  on 
finding  you  here." 

"I'm  delighted— but  how " 

"I  know  your  habits,  my  dear.  You  always  loved  to 
prowl.  And  there  used  to  be  a  time,  you  know,  when  we 
prowled  together." 

He  found  himself  glad  to  see  her — so  glad  that  he  for- 
got how  angry  he  was. 

"Let's  prowl  then,"  he  said,  and  turned  his  steps 
southward  again. 

"I  suppose  you  know  I've  been  hunting  for  you." 

"Yes." 

She  volunteered  no  more. 

"When  did  you  get  back?"  he  asked  slowly. 

"Tuesday.  I  wasted  no  time,  you  see,  in  looking  for 
you.  I've  just  come  from  the  studio." 

"You  might  have  seen  me  in  Normandy  if  you  had 
cared  to." 

"Oh,  I  saw  quite  enough  of  you  there,"  she  said  dryly. 
"Besides,  I  knew  what  you  wanted.  I  wasn't  ready  to 
talk  to  you.  I  am  now." 

He  laughed  uneasily,  sparring  for  wind. 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  me?" 

"Much.  I've  been  thinking,  John.  Curious,  isn't  it? 
257 


MADCAP 


Wearing,  too.  Adversity's  sweet  milk,  philosophy.  Is 
beauty's  ensign  yet  crimson  in  my  cheeks  ?" 

"If  you  weren't  sure  of  it  you  wouldn't  ask  me,"  he 
laughed.  "Why  didn't  you  want  to  see  me  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  I  didn't  want  to  see  you.  I  merely  sug- 
gested that  I  didn't  think  it  wise  to." 

"Why  not?" 

"You  might  not  have  understood  my  point  of  view. 
You  mayn't  now.  I  think  I  was  a  trifle  bewildered  over 
there.  Now  I'm  clear  again."  She  paused,  her  gaze  focus- 
ing quickly,  "O  John,  what  a  mess  you've  made  of  my 
ideals !" 

"I?"  he  muttered  stupidly,  but  he  knew  what  she 
meant.  "What  have  I  to  do  with  your  ideals,  Olga?" 

"Nothing — except  that  you  gave  them  birth  and  then 
destroyed  them.  It's  infanticide — nothing  less,"  she  said 
slowly. 

He  groped  for  a  word,  stammered  and  was  silent. 

She  examined  him  curiously,  then  smiled. 

"Silence?      Confession?" 

"I've  nothing  to  confess."  And  then  desperately. 
"Appearances  are — were  against  us.  If  you've  spoken  of 
that — you've  done  a  great  mischief — an  irreparable 
wrong — to — to  Hermia." 

She  was  laughing  again,  silently,  inwardly,  her  head 
bent. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  I'll  relieve  your  anxiety  at  once,"  she 
said  at  last.  "It  was  too  rich  a  secret  to  tell  too  quickly 
— too  good  a  story — and  then  the  embroideries — I  had  to 
think  of  those.  No,  I  have  not  told  it,  John, — not  yet. 
You  see,  after  I  left  you,  I  changed  my  mind  about  things. 
Your  rural  amourette  is  still  a  secret,  mon  ami." 

He  gasped  a  sigh  of  relief.  How  could  he  ever  have 
258 


A    LADY   IN   THE   DUSK 

believed  it  of  her  ?  He  laughed  lightly  with  an  air  of  care- 
lessness. 

"You  wouldn't  tell.  I  knew  that.  You're  not  that 
sort,  Olga " 

"Not  so  fast,  ray  poor  friend,"  she  put  in  quickly. 
"I've  said  that  your  indiscretion  was  still  a  secret,  but  I 
still  reserve  the  right  to  tell  it  here  in  New  York  if  the 
humor  seizes  me." 

"Nonsense,"  he  laughed.  "I  simply  don't  believe  you 
would." 

She  shrugged. 

"I  have  told  you  the  truth.  I  mean  what  I  say.  I 
shall  tell  what  I  know,  unless — 

She  paused.    Her  moment  was  not  yet. 

"Unless?"  he  questioned. 

"Unless  I  find  reasons  why  I  shouldn't,"  she  finished 
provokingly. 

"Meaning — what?"  he  persisted. 

He  regarded  her  for  a  moment  in  silence,  quickly  join- 
ing in  her  laughter. 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  of  making  such  a  lot  of  fuss  over  a 
thing?  It  was  imprudent,  indiscreet  of  us,  if  you  like. 
Hermia  and  I  met  by  accident.  I  was  tramping  it — as 
you  know.  I  asked  her  if  she  didn't  want  to  go  along, 
and  she  did.  Simplest  thing  in  the  world.  We  waved 
convention  aside.  Nothing  odd  about  that.  We're  doing 
it  every  day." 

"Oh,  are  we?" 

"Yes.  The  laws  of  convention  were  only  made  as 
props  and  crutches  for  the  crooked.  If  you're  straight, 
you  don't  need  'em." 

"Still,"  she  mused  sweetly,  "society  must  be  protected. 
Who  is  to  tell  which  of  us  is  straight  and  which  crooked? 

259 


MADCAP 

Even  if  we  were  crooked,  you  know,  neither  of  us  would 
be  willing  to  admit  it." 

"But  it's  a  question  not  so  much  of  my  wisdom — as 
of  Hermia's.  You'll  admit " 

"I  admit  nothing,"  she  said  quickly.  "You've  sur- 
prised, shocked  and  grieved  me  beyond  words,  both  of 
you,  also  made  me  feel  a  trifle  foolish.  My  judgment 
is  shaken  to  the  earth.  Here  I've  been  holding  you  up 
as  a  kind  of  paragon,  a  fossilized  Galahad,  with  a  horizon 
just  at  your  elbows,  to  find  you  touring  France,  faisant 
I'aimable  with  a  frolicsome  scapegrace  in  a  bolero  jacket." 

"I  would  remind  you,"  he  broke  in  stiffly,  "that  you're 
speaking  of  Hermia  Challoner." 

"Oh,  I'm  quite  aware'  of  it,"  with  a  careless  wave  of 
her  hand.  "And  as  to  Hermia's  wisdom — life  has  taught 
me  this — that  a  woman  may  be  clever,  she  may  be  intui- 
tive, she  may  be  skillful,  but  she's  never  wise.  And  so  I 
say — I'm  shocked,  John  Markham,  outraged  and  shocked 
beyond  expression." 

"Oh,  you're  the  limit,  Olga,"  he  blurted  out. 

"Simply  because  I  adhere  to  the  traditions  of  my  sex, 
because  I  adhere  to  the  memory  of  my  friendships.  I 
like  you,  John  Markham,  your  simplicity  has  always  ap- 
pealed to  me.  And  now  that  you  add  gallantry  to  your 
more  sober  charms  I  confess  you're  quite  irresistible." 

Markham  stopped  short. 

"I  can't  have  you  talking  like  this,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  don't  mind  what  you  say  of  me,  of  course,  but  your 

choice  of  words  is  not  fortunate.  Miss  Challoner  and 
j » 

"Spare  your  breath,"  she  said,  turning  on  him  swiftly. 
"I'm  no  fool.  I've  lived  in  the  world.  If  Hermia  Chal- 
loner chooses  to  lay  herself  open  to  criticism  that's  her 

260 


A    LADY   IN   THE   DUSK 

lookout.  I'll  say  what  I  please  of  her.  She  has  earned 
that  retribution.  Talk  as  you  will  of  your  own  virtues 
and  hers  you'd  never  succeed  in  convincing  anyone  of 
your  innocence — me  least  of  all.  What's  the  use  of  beat- 
ing around  the  bush.  I  can  see  through  a  millstone — if 
it  has  a  hole  in  it.  Hermia  Challoner " 

"Silence!"  His  fingers  gripped  her  arm  and  she 
stopped,  ready  to  scream  with  the  pain  of  it.  "You're 
insulting  the  woman  I  love.  Do  you  hear?"  he  whispered 
through  set  lips.  "I'll  hear  no  more  of  it  here — or  else- 
where? We  traveled  together,  that  is  all.  My  God — 
that  you  should  dare !"  He  stopped  suddenly,  peering 
through  the  dusk  at  her  face  which  still  smiled,  though  the 
pain  of  her  arm  gave  her  agony,  and  then  he  relaxed  with 
a  laugh.  "You  don't  mean  it,  I  know.  It  isn't  worthy 
of  you.  Why,  Olga,  you  are  her  friend.  You  know  her 
intimately — body  and  soul.  You  can't  believe  it.  You 
don't " 

"I  do,"  fiercely.     "I  do  believe  it — more's  the  pity." 

They  had  stopped  and  were  facing  each  other,  bay- 
onets crossed.  The  city  roared  about  them,  but  they  did 
not  hear  it.  He  dominated  her,  masterful.  She  fought 
back  silently,  a  thing  of  nerves  and  passion  only,  but  she 
did  not  flinch,  though  he  had  already  wounded  her  mor- 
tally. 

"Lie,  if  you  like  to  me,  John  Markham.  Lie  to  me. 
It's  your  duty.  Lie  like  a  gentleman.  But  you  can't 
make  me  believe  you.  I'm  no  fool.  I'll  say  what  I  like 
of  her — or  of  you,  when  I  choose,  where  I  choose " 

"I  won't  believe  you." 

"You  must.  It  has  come  to  that,"  she  went  on,  whis- 
pering. "I've  given  you  the  best  of  me,  the  very  best, 
what  no  man  has  had  of  me,  affection,  strong  and  tender, 

261 


MADCAP 

friendship,  clean  and  wholesome.  I  gave  gladly.  I'm  not 
sorry.  They  were  sweeter  even  than  the  love  in  my  breast 
which  stifled — which  still  stifles  me." 

"Olga!" 

The  suppressed  passion  of  her  confession  startled  r 
him.  Her  half-closed  eyes  burned  through  the  dusk,  thenj 
paled  again. 

"It's  true,"  she  went  on  haltingly.  "I  love  you.  My 
love — I'm  proud  of  it — prouder  of  it  than  of  anything 
I've  ever  been  or  known — because  it's  sweet  and  clean. 
That's  why  I  can  look  you  in  the  eyes  and  tell  you  so. 
Why  shouldn't  I?  What  is  my  woman's  pride  beside  that 
other  pride?  I  have  not  stooped — as  she  has — to  con- 
quer." 

"Sh i" 

"She  stooped  to  conquer.  I'm  glad — glad — it  shows 
the  difference  between  us.  It  weighs  us  one  against  the 
other.  You  shall  know.  One  day  you  shall  know.  You'll 
tire  of  her.  It's  always  the  ending  of  a  conquest  like 
that." 

"You're  mad,"  he  whispered,  aghast. 

She  threw  up  her  hands  and  pressed  them  to  her  breast 
a  moment.  Then,  with  a  quivering  intake  of  the  breath, 
the  tension  broke,  and  her  hands  dropped  to  her  sides, 
her  laughter  jarring  him  strangely. 

"Curious,  isn't  it?"  he  heard  her  saying.  "You're  the 
last  man  in  the  world  I  would  have  dreamed  of.  I  used 
to  laugh  at  you,  you  know.  You  were  so  gauche  and  so 
ill-mannered.  I  took  you  up  as  a  sort  of  game.  It 
amused  me  to  try  and  see  what  could  be  made  of  you. 
If  you'd  made  love  to  me,  I  would  have  laughed  at  you. 
But  you  didn't.  Why  didn't  you,  John?  It  would  have 
saved  us  all  such  a  lot  of  trouble." 


A  LZDY  IN  THE  DUSK 

Her  mockery  set  him  more  at  ease.  He  saw  a  refuge 
and  took  it. 

"I  think  you're  not  quite  so  mad — as  mischievous," 
he  said  boldly.  "Your  loves  are  too  frequent  to  cause 
your  friends  much  concern — least  of  all  the  one  you  honor 
with  your  present  professions.  I'm  not  woman-wise, 
Olga.  And  I'm  not  honey-mouthed.  I  hope  you  won't 
mind  if  I  say  I  don't  believe  you." 

Her  smile  vanished. 

"You  will — in  time,"  she  said  quickly.  "So  will — 
Hermia."  She  paused,  and  then,  her  fingers  on  his  arm, 
her  eyes  to  his. 

"Have  you — ?  Has  she — ?  You  wouldn't  marry 
her,  John?" 

Her  tone  was  soft,  but  the  inference  had  the  ominous 
sibilance  of  a  whip-lash,  which  swirled  in  the  air  and 
circled  over  Hermia,  too.  He  chose  his  words  delib- 
erately. 

"She's  the  sweetest,  cleanest,  purest  woman  I've  ever 
known." 

She  shrugged  and  drew  away.  Whatever  she  felt,  no 
sound  escaped  her.  He  followed  toward  the  lights  of  the 
Avenue,  aware  that  a  crisis  in  his  affairs  of  some  sort  had 
been  reached  and  passed.  His  companion  walked  more 
and  more  rapidly,  setting  the  pace  which  outdid  the  slow 
movement  of  his  wits. 

But  he  caught  up  with  her  presently  and  took  her  by 
the  arm. 

"Olga,  forgive  me.  You  maddened  me.  I  wanted  you 
to  know — that  Hermia  was  not  what  you  thought  she 
was.  You  lower  your  own  standards — can't  you  see — j 
when  you  lower  hers?  She's  only  a  girl — thoughtless,  a 
thing  of  impulses  only — mad  impulses  if  you  like — but 

263 


MADCAP . 

clean,  Olga, — like  a  child.  You've  only  to  look  at  her 
and  see "  x 

"I  did  look  at  her — and  see,"  she  said  through  her 
teeth. 

He  stopped  her  by  main  force. 

"You've  got  to  listen!  Do  you  hear?  It  was  I  who 
put  her  in  this  false  position.  I  who  must  get  her  out 
of  it.  I  owe  her  that  and  you  owe  it  to  me." 

He  released  her  and  went  on  more  quietly.  "'I'm  no 
Galahad  and  I  make  no  pretences  to  virtue,  but  I'm  no 
rake  or  despoiler  of  women  either.  I  dare  you  to  doubt 
it.  You  didn't  doubt  it — there — in  the  studio.  You 
can't  doubt  it  now.  Women  of  your  sort — and  hers — • 
are  inviolable." 

Her  lids  flickered  and  fell. 

"A  girl — Olga,  a  mere  child.  Think!  What  is  this 
love  of  yours  that  feeds  on  hatred — on  uncleanness  ?  Love 
is  made  of  gentler  stuff — beautifies,  uplifts — not  de- 
stroys." 

Her  head  was  bent  and  her  face  was  hidden  under  her 
wide  hat,  but  her  whisper  came  to  him  quite  clearly. 

"You — tell  me — what  love  is?     You!" 

When  she  raised  her  head  her  lips  were  smiling  softly, 
and  she  moved  forward  slowly,  he  at  her  side.  They  had 
reached  the  Avenue.  A  motor  he  had  not  observed  stood 
near. 

"We  part  here  I  think.    It's  adieu,  John." 

"No,"  he  muttered. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is."  And  then  with  a  gay  laugh  which 
was  her  best  defence — "Too  bad  we  couldn't  have  hit  it 
off,  isn't  it?  I  would  have  liked  it  awfully.  I  give  you 
my  word  you've  never  seemed  nearly  so  interesting  as  at 
this  moment  of  discomposure.  There's  a  charm  in  your 


awkwardness,  John, — a  native  charm.     Good  night.     I 
go  alone." 

He  followed  her  a  few  paces  but  she  reached  the  ma- 
chine before  him  and  was  whisked  away. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 
THE  WINGS   OF   THE   BUTTERFLY 

JOHN  MARKHAM  spent  an  unpleasant  evening. 
He  dined  alone  at  a  club,  wandering  afterward 
aimlessly  from  library  to  billiard  room  and  then 
took  to  the  streets,  trusting  to  physical  exercise  to  clear 
his  head  of  the  tangle  that  Olga  had  put  into  it.  Olga, 
the  irrepressible  man-hunter,  in  love  with  a  "fossilized 
Galahad."  That  was  ironically  amusing,  extraordinary, 
if  true,  a  punishment  which  fitted  her  crime,  and  some- 
thing of  a  grim  joke  on  the  man-hunter  as  well  as  the 
fossil.  Markham  tried  to  view  the  matter  with  uncon- 
cern, man-like,  recalling  the  many  times  that  Olga's  name 
had  been  coupled  with  those  of  various  distinguished  for- 
eigners and  the  frequent  reports  of  her  engagement,  al- 
ways denied  and  forgotten.  And  yet  she  worried  him. 
For  a  brief  moment  she  had  given  him  a  glimpse  of  the 
shadowy  recesses  where  she  hid  her  naked  soul ;  a  glimpse 
only,  like  some  of  those  she  had  given  him  when  he  was 
painting  her  portrait;  but  what  he  had  seen  now  was 
different — an  Olga  no  longer  wistful,  no  longer  amenable ; 
a  wild,  unreasoning  thing  who  purred,  cat-like,  while  he 
stroked  her,  sheathing  and  unsheathing  her  claws.  There 
was  mischief  brewing — he  felt  it  in  her  sudden  access  of 
self-control,  and  in  the  final  jest  with  which  she  had  left 
him.  He  knew  her  better  now.  It  was  when  she  mocked 
that  Olga  was  most  dangerous.  It  was  clear  that  she  had 

266 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY 

not  believed  him  when  he  told  her  the  truth.    Her  stand- 
ards forbade  it,  of  course.    It  was  too  bad. 

But  she  had  not  told  what  she  knew — that  was  the 
main  thing.  What  if  she  did  tell  now?  Hermia  could 
deny  it,  of  course,  and  if  necessary  he  must  lie,  as 
Olga  had  said,  like  a  gentleman.  And  where  were  Olga's 
proofs?  Who  would  confirm  her?  What  evidence,  human 
or  documentary,  could  she  bring  forward  here  in  New 
York  to  prove  Hermia's  culpability,  if,  as  it  seemed  to  be 
her  intention,  she  insisted  on  carrying  her  sweet  venge- 
ance to  its  end?  There  was  no  one — he  paused,  his 
brow  clouding.  De  Folligny!  Had  De  Folligny  learned 
who  Hermia  was?  Had  Olga  found  out  about  the  com- 
panion in  his  automobile  at  Verneuil?  He  waved  the 
thought  away.  De  Folligny  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
ocean.  The  psychological  moment  for  Olga's  revelation 
had  passed. 

*  Consoling  himself  with  these  thoughts  he  went  home 
and  to  bed  and  morning  found  him  early  at  the  studio, 
awaiting  his  new  sitter,  in  a  more  quiescent,  if  still  un- 
certain, frame  of  mind. 

The  portrait  of  Mrs.  Berkeley  Hammond  on  which 
he  had  been  working  sat  smugly  upon  one  of  his  easels,  a 
thing  of  shreds  and  patches  (though  the  lady  was  in 
pearls  and  a  Drecoll  frock),  a  thing  "painty"  without 
being  direct,  mannered  without  being  elegant,  highly  col- 
ored without  being  colorful,  a  streaky  thing  with  brilliant 
spots,  like  the  work  of  a  promising  pupil;  a  pretty  poor 
Markham,  which  had  pleased  the  sitter  because  its  face 
flattered  her,  and  for  which  she  would  gladly  pay  the  con- 
siderable sum  he  charged,  while  Markham's  inner  con- 
sciousness loudly  proclaimed  that  the  canvas  was  not 
worth  as  much  as  the  crayon  sketch  of  Madame  Daudi- 

267 


MADCAP 

fret  in  Normandy  which  had  been  the  price  of  a  ragout. 
Really  he  would  have  to  paint  better.  He  swung  the 
easel  around  with  a  kick  of  the  foot  and  faced  a  new 
canvas,  primed  some  days  before,  and  busied  himself  about 
his  palette  and  paint  tubes. 

When  Phyllis  Van  Vorst  emerged  from  the  dressing- 
room  a  while  later  into  the  cool  north  light,  Markham's 
eyes  sparkled  with  a  genuine  delight.  Here  was  the  sort 
of  thing  he  could  do — white  satin  with  filmy  drapery  from 
which  rose  the  fresh-colored  flower  of  girlhood.  With- 
out being  really  pretty,  his  model  created  the  illusion  of 
beauty  by  her  youth,  her  abundant  health  and  many 
little  tricks  of  gesture  and  expression.  Her  role  was 
that  of  the  ingenue  and  she  prattled  childishly  of  many 
things,  flitting  like  a  butterfly  from  topic  to  topic,  grave 
and  gay  with  a  careless  grace  which  added  something  to 
the  picture  she  made.  Markham  let  her  talk,  interjecting 
monosyllables  lulled  by  the  inexhaustible  flow,  aware,  after 
the  first  pose  or  two,  that  he  was  painting  well,  with  the 
careless  brush  of  entire  confidence.  As  Olga  had  said,  he 
always  was  at  his  best  when  a  little  contemptuous.  In 
three  hours  the  head  was  finished  and  the  background  laid 
in,  premier  coup — the  best  thing  he  had  done  in  a  year. 

He  twisted  the  canvas  around  to  get  a  better  look  at 
it  and  groped  for  his  pipe,  suddenly  conscious  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  painted  and  that  his  model  had  sat  steadily 
for  an  hour  and  a  half  without  a  rest. 

"You  poor  child,"  he  muttered  with  compunction,  as 
he  helped  her  down,  "that's  the  penalty  of  being  interest- 
ing." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  she  cried,  "you  can  say  nice  things, 
can't  you?" 

"When  I  think  them,"  he  laughed. 
268 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY 

She  stood  before  the  canvas  in  breathless  delight. 

"Oh,  do  I  look  like  that,  Mr.  Markham,  like  Psyche 
with  the  lamp?  It's  quite  too  wonderful  for  words.  I'm 
a  dream.  I've  never  seen  anything  quite  so  flattering  in 
my  life.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  I  came  to  you  instead  of  to 
Teddy  Vincent.  You've  made  my  poor  nose  quite  straight 
— and  yet  it's  my  nose,  too.  How  on  earth  did  you  do  it  ? 
You're  not  going  to  work  any  more — ?" 

"No — "  he  laughed,  "the  head  is  done." 

She  sat  in  the  chair  he  brought  forward  for  her  and 
Markham  dropped  on  the  divan  near  her  and  smoked. 
She  gazed  at  the  head  for  a  while  in  rapturous  silence. 

"O  Mr.  Markham,  will  you  ever  forgive  me  for  being 
so  stupid  last  summer,"  she  said  at  last,  "about  that  up- 
side-down painting?  I've  been  so  humiliated " 

"I'm  not  really  a  landscape  man,  you  know,"  he  said 
cheerfully  by  way  of  consolation,  "and  it  was  only  a 
sketch." 

"Oh,  but  they  made  such  a  lot  of  fun  of  me — at  West- 
port.  They're  not  very  merciful — that  crowd." 

Markham's  gaze  shifted. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Oh,  have  you  heard?"  his  companion  laughed  sud- 
idenly. 

"About  what  ?"  asked  Markham  startled. 

"About  Crosby  Downs." 

"No." 

"He  has  married  Sybil  Trenchard." 

Markham  took  a  puff  at  his  pipe. 

"Really?    Why?" 

She  laughed.     And  then  quickly. 

"I  don't  know.  And  Hilda  and  Carol — Carol  Gouver- 
neur,  you  know — engaged.  She  has  wanted  him  a  long 

269 


time.    Everybody  thought  he'd  wiggle  out  of  it  somehow, 
but  he  didn't  or  couldn't  or  something." 

He  smiled.     "Cupid  has  had  a  busy  summer." 

"Oh,  yes,  quite  extraordinary.  You  see  out  of  all  that 
house  party,  there  are  only  three  or  four  left."  She 
spoke  of  this  wholesale  selection  and  apportionment  as 
though  her  topic  had  been  apples. 

"Indeed?"  Markham  stopped  smoking.  "Who  else?" 
he  asked  calmly. 

"Me,"  she  said  blushing  prettily.  "I  mean  I — I  and 
Reggie " 

"Reginald  Armistead!  I  thought  that  he  and  Miss 
Challoner " 

"Oh,  that's  all  off,"  she  laughed.  "They  didn't  really 
care  for  each  other  at  all — not  that  way — just  as  friends 
you  know.  Hermia  is  a  good  deal  like  a  fellow.  Reggie 
liked  her  that  way.  They  were  pals — had  been  from 
childhood,  but  then  one  doesn't  marry  one's  pal." 

"I'm  very  glad,"  said  Markham  politely,  examining 
her  with  a  new  interest.  "I  shall  make  it  a  point  at  once 
to  offer  him  my  congratulations.  I  like  him." 

"He's  adorable,  isn't  he?  But  I'm  horribly  fright- 
ened about  him.  He's  so  dreadfully  reckless — flying, 
I  mean.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Hermia,  I'm  sure  he  never 
would  have  begun  it.  But  he  has  promised  me  to  give 
it  up — now.  Hermia  may  break  her  neck  if  she  likes; 
that's  Mr.  Morehouse's  affair,  but " 

"Morehouse!"  Markham  broke  in,  wide-eyed. 

She  regarded  him  calmly. 

"Where  on  earth  have  you  been,  Mr.  Markham?" 

"In — France,"  he  stammered.     "Do  you  mean  that 

Hermia — Miss  Challoner  is " 

"Engaged  to  Trewy?     Of  course.     It  was   cabled 
270 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY 

from  Paris — to  the  Herald.  But  then  nobody  who  knows 
about  things  is  really  very  much  surprised.  Trewy  has 
been  wild  about  her  for  years  and  her  family  have  all 
wanted  it.  It's  really  a  very  good  match.  You  see 
Trewy  is  so  steady  and  she  needs  a  skid  to  her 
wheel " 

She  rambled  on  but  to  Markham  her  voice  was  only  a 
confused  chatter  of  many  voices.  He  rose  and  turned 
the  easel  into  a  better  light,  then  knocked  out  his  pipe 
into  the  fireplace.  The  room  whirled  around  him  and  he 
steadied  himself  against  the  mantel,  while  he  tried  to  listen 
to  what  else  she  was  saying.  Her  loquacity,  a  moment 
ago  so  amusing,  had  assumed  a  deeper  significance.  The 
phrases  purled  with  diabolical  fluidity  from  her  lips, 
searing  like  molten  metal.  Hermia !  The  girl  was  mad. 

The  confusion  about  him  ceased  and  in  the  silence 
he  heard  her  voice. 

"Are  you  ill,  Mr.  Markham?" 

He  straightened  with  a  short  laugh  and  faced  toward 
her. 

"No — not  at  all.  And  I  was  really  very  much  inter- 
ested," he  said  evenly.  "Miss  Challoner  is  in  Europe?" 
he  asked  carelessly. 

"Oh,  yes, — or  was — and  Trewy  followed  her  there. 
She's  home  now — came  yesterday — of  course,  with  Trewy 
at  her  heels.  Oh!  he'll  keep  her  in  order,  no  fear  about 
that.  It's  about  time  that  Hermia  settled  down.  She's 
quite  the  wildest  thing — perfectly  properly,  you  know, 
Olga  Tcherny  says " 

"Olga  is  home,  too?"  he  interrupted,  steadying  him- 
self. 

She  nodded  quickly  and  went  on.  "Olga  says  that 
Hermia  disappeared  from  Paris  for  over  a  week  and  no 

271 


MADCAP 

one  knew  where  she  was.  Trewy  was  crazy  with  anxiety. 
But  she  came  back  one  night  in  an  old  gray  coat  and  hat 
with  a  bundle — the  shabbiest  thing  imaginable,  looking 
like  a  tramp.  Trewy  was  in  the  hotel  and  saw  her.  But 
they  patched  things  up  somehow." 

"Did  Madame  Tcherny  learn  where  she  had  been?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  laughed.  "You  see  Olga  was  too  busy 
with  her  own  affairs.  She  has  a  Frenchman  in  tow  this 
season — she's  brought  him  here  with  her — florid,  blonde, 
curled  and  monocled,  the  Marquis  de  Folligny " 

"Pierre  de  Folligny !" 

"You  know  him?" 

"Yes— er— slightly." 

She  had  babbled  her  gossip  so  lightly  and  rapidly 
that  this  last  piece  of  information  had  not  given  him  the 
start  its  significance  deserved.  But  its  import  grew. 

"It's  an  affair  of  long  standing,  isn't  it?"  she  asked 
him. 

"I — I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  he  muttered,  his  brow 
clouding. 

Something  in  his  manner  made  her  glance  at  the  clock. 

"Half-past  one — and  Reggie's  coming  to  lunch  at 
two.  I'll  have  to  tear" 

He  opened  the  dressing-room  for  her  and,  after  she 
had  vanished  within,  stood  glowering  at  the  door  like  one 
possessed. 

A  butterfly  that  dripped  poison!  He  was  drenched 
with  it.  How  lightly  Hermia's  name  had  dropped  from 
her  satin  wings !  He  smiled  grimly  at  the  thought  of  his 
own  situation,  the  central  figure  in  at  least  one  act  of  this 
comedy,  viewing  it  from  the  far  side  of  the  proscenium 
arch,  gaping  like  the  rustic  in  the  metropolis  who  sees  him- 
self for  the  first  time  depicted  upon  the  stage.  What 

272 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY 

right  had  she — this  little  flutter-budget — to  know  these 
things — when  he  was  denied  them?  Hermia — the  report 
of  her  engagement  had  been  disturbing,  but  for  some  rea- 
son it  seemed  less  important  now  than  the  fact  that  she 
was  here — here  in  New  York  within  twenty  minutes  of 
him — perhaps,  upon  the  very  street  where  he  might  meet 
her  when  he  went  out.  Hermia  and  Trevvy  Morehouse! 
He  simply  would  not  believe  it.  Hermia  might  look  him 

in  the  eyes  and  tell  him  so — and  then But  she  would 

not  dare.  Those  eyes — blue — violet — gray — all  colors  as 
the  mood  or  the  sunlight  pleased — honest  eyes  into  whose 
depths  he  had  peered  when  they  were  dark  with  the  shad- 
ows of  the  forest  and  seen  his  image  dancing.  She  was 
his  that  day — all  his.  He  could  have  taken  her;  and  he 
had  let  her  go  back  to  Paris — and  the  excellent  Trevelyan. 
Hermia,  his  mad  vagabond  Hermia,  was  ready  to  tie  her- 
self for  life  to  that  automatic  nonentity  at  Westport  who 
trailed,  a  patient  shadow  in  Hermia's  swirling  wake. 
Hermia  and  Morehouse!  He  simply  wouldn't  believe  it. 
When  his  sitter  had  departed  in  a  rush  to  keep  her 
engagement,  he  filled  his  pipe  again  and  walked  the  floor 
smoking  furiously,  the  scenario  of  Olga's  little  drama 
taking  a  more  definite  form.  He  understood  now  the 
reasons  why  she  had  not  told  what  she  had  seen.  He 
doubted  now  whether  it  was  her  intention  to  tell.  But 
she  had  brought  the  Frenchman  De  Folligny  over  to  do 
the  telling  for  her,  reserving  her  little  climax  until  all  her 
marionettes  were  properly  placed  according  to  her  own 
stage  directions,  when  she  would  let  the  situation  work 
itself  out  to  its  own  conclusion.  It  was  an  ingenious 
plan,  one  which  did  her  hand  much  credit.  She  had  rea- 
lized, of  course,  that  a  revelation  of  Hermia's  shortcom- 
ings in  Alen9on,  Paris  or  Trouville  would  have  deprived 

273 


MADCAP 


her  vengeance  of  half  its  sting.  It  required  a  New  York 
background,  a  quiet  drawing-room  filled  with  Hermia's 
intimates  for  her  "situation"  to  produce  its  most  telling 
effect.  De  Folligny  now  had  the  center  of  the  stage  and 
at  the  proper  moment  she  would  pull  the  necessary  wires 
and  the  thing  would  be  accomplished. 

Something  must  be  done  at  once.  He  changed  into 
street  clothes  and  went  out,  lunched  alone  on  the  way 
uptown  and  at  three  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
Challoner  house. 

The  butler  showed  Markham  into  the  drawing-room 
and  took  his  card.  He  did  not  know  whether  Miss  Chal- 
loner was  in  or  not,  but  he  would  see.  Markham  sat  and 
impatiently  waited,  his  eyes  meanwhile  restlessly  roving 
the  splendor  of  the  room  in  search  of  some  object  which 
would  suggest  Hermia — mad  Hermia  of  Vagabondia. 
Opposite  him  upon  the  wall  was  a  portrait  of  her  by  a 
distinguished  Frenchman,  with  whose  metier  he  was  fa- 
miliar— an  astounding  falsehood  in  various  shades  of 
tooth-powder.  This  Hermia  smirked  at  him  like  the 
lady  in  the  fashion  page,  exuding  an  atmosphere  of 
wealth  and  nothing  else — a  strange,  unreal  Hermia  who 
floated  vaguely  between  her  gilt  barriers,  neither  sprite 
nor  flesh  and  blood.  How  could  Marsac  have  known 
the  real  Hermia — the  heart,  the  spirit  of  her  as  he  knew 
them! 

And  yet  when  a  few  moments  later  she  appeared  in 
the  doorway  he  wondered  if  he  knew  her  at  all.  She  was 
dressed  for  afternoon  in  some  clinging  dark  stuff  which 
made  her  figure  slim  almost  to  the  point  of  thinness.  She 
wore  a  small  hat  with  a  tall  plume  and  seemed  to  have 
gained  in  stature.  Her  face  was  paler  and  her  modulated 
voice  and  the  studied  gesture  as  she  offered  him  her  hand 


did  more  to  convince  him  that  things  were  not  as  they 
should  be. 

"So  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Markham,"  he  heard 
her  saying  coolly.  "I  was  wondering  if  I'd  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  here." 

He  stood  uncertainly  at  the  point  of  seizing  her  in 
his  arms  when  he  was  made  aware  of  her  premeditation. 
The  tepor  of  her  politeness  was  like  a  blow  between  the 
eyes,  and  he  peered  blindly  into  her  face  in  vain  for  some 
sign  of  the  girl  he  knew. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  asked,  and  dumbly  he  sat. 
"I  hear  you  were  in  Normandy,"  she  went  on  smoothly. 
"Did  you  have  a  good  summer?  You  did  leave  us  rather 
abruptly  at  Westport,  didn't  you?  But  then  you  know, 
of  course,  I  understood  that " 

"Hermia,"  he  broke  in  in  a  low  voice.  "What  has 
happened  to  you?  Why  didn't  you  answer  my  letters. 
I've  been  nearly  mad  with  anxiety."  He  leaned  forward 
toward  her,  the  words  falling  in  a  torrent.  But  she  only 
examined  him  curiously,  a  puzzled  wrinkle  at  her  brows 
vying  with  the  set  smile  she  still  wore. 

"Your  letters,  Mr.  Markham!"  she  said  in  surprise. 
"Oh!  You  mean  the  note  about  the  sketch  of  Thimble 
Island?  I  did  reply,  didn't  I?  It  was  awfully  nice " 

"Good  God !"  he  muttered,  rising.  "Haven't  you  pun- 
1  ished  me  enough  now,  without  this —  "  with  a  wave  of  his 
lhand — "this  extravaganza.  Haven't  I  paid?  I  searched 
Paris  high  and  low  for  you,  Hermia,  haunted  your  bank- 
ers and  the  hotel  where  you  had  been  stopping,  only  re- 
turning here  at  the  moment  when  my  engagements  in 
New  York  made  it  necessary.  Has  it  been  kind  of  you, 
or  just,  to  ignore  my  letters  and  leave  me  all  these  weeks 
in  anxiety  and  ignorance?  I've  missed  you  horribly — 

275 


_  MADCAP  _ 

.-ind  I  feared  —  nameless  things  —  that  you  had  forgotten 
me,  that  you  wanted  everything  forgotten."  As  he  came 
forward  she  rose  and  took  a  step  toward  an  inner  room, 
her  eyes  still  narrowed  and  quizzical,  watching  him  care- 
fully. 

"Hermia  —  Hermia  !"  He  stopped,  the  tension  break- 
ing in  a  laugh.  "Oh,  you  want  to  punish  me,  of  course. 
Don't  you  think  you've  paid  me  well  already?  See!  I'm 
penitent.  What  do  you  want?  Shall  I  go  down  on  my 
knees  to  you.  I  have  been  on  my  knees  to  you  for  weeks  — 
you  must  have  known  it.  My  letters  -  " 

He  paused  and  then  stopped,  puzzled,  for  she  had  not 
moved  and  her  gaze  surveyed  him,  coolly  critical. 

"You  got  my  letters?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

She  was  silent. 

"I've  written  you  every  day  —  since  you  left  me  — 
poured  my  heart  out  to  you.  You  didn't  get  them?  O 
Hermia,  you  must  have  known  what  life  has  been  without 
you.  Do  you  think  I  could  forget  what  I  read  in  your 
eyes  that  day  in  the  forest?  Could  you  forget  what  you 
wrote  there  ?  Only  your  lips  refused  me.  Even  when  they 
refused  me,  they  were  warm  with  my  kisses.  They  were 
mine,  as  you  were,  body  and  soul.  You  loved  me,  Hermia 
—  from  the  first.  These  flimsy  barriers  you're  raising, 
I'll  break  them  down  —  and  take  you  -  ' 

As  he  approached,  she  reached  the  curtains,  one  hand 
upraised. 

"You're  dreaming,  Mr.  Markham,"  she  said,  dis- 
tinctly. "I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  you're  talking 
about." 

"You  love  me  -  "  he  stammered. 


Her  laughter  checked  him  effectually.     He  stood,  his 
276 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY 

full  gesture  of  entreaty  frozen  into  immobility.  Then 
slowly  his  arms  relaxed  and  he  stood  awkwardly  staring, 
now  thoroughly  awake.  She  meant  him  to  understand 
that  Vagabondia  was  not — that  their  week  in  Arcadia 
had  never  been. 

He  gaped  at  her  a  full  moment  before  he  found  speech. 

"You  wish  to  deny  that  you  and  I — that  you  were 
there  with  me — in  Normandy?"  he  stammered. 

"One  only  denies  the  possible,  Mr.  Markham,"  she 
said  with  a  glib  certitude.  "The  impossible  needs  no 
denial.  I  was  in  Paris  and  in  Switzerland  this  summer. 
Obviously  I  couldn't  have  been  in  Normandy,  too." 

"I  see,"  he  muttered  mechanically.  "You  were  in 
Switzerland." 

"Yes.     In  Switzerland,  Mr.  Markham,"  she  repeated. 

He  turned  slowly  and  walked  toward  the  window,  his 
hands  behind  him,  struggling  for  control.  When  his  voice 
came,  it  was  as  firm  as  her  own. 

"Can  you  prove  that?"  he  asked  coldly. 

"Why  should  I  prove  it,  Mr.  Markham?"  she  asked. 
"My  word  should  be  sufficient,  I  think." 

The  even  tones  of  her  voice  and  the  repetition  of  his 
name  inflamed  him.  There  was  little  doubt  of  her  apos- 
tasy. He  turned  toward  her  with  a  change  of  manner, 
his  eyes  dark. 

"Perhaps  you'll  be  obliged  to  prove  it,"  he  muttered. 

"I?    Why?" 

He  looked  her  straight  in  the,  eyes. 

"Monsieur  de  Folligny  is  with  Olga  Tcherny — here 
in  New  York." 

The  plume  on  her  hat  nodded  back,  and  her  eyes 
widely  opened  gave  him  a  momentary  glimpse  of  her 
terror. 


MADCAP 

"De  Folligny  is  here — with  Olga !" 

"Yes.    I've  just  learned  it — to-day." 

She  moved  her  slender  shoulders  upward  in  the  ges- 
ture she  had  learned  from  Olga  Tcherny. 

"That  will  be  quite  pleasant,"  she  resumed,  easily. 
"He  will  render  us  a  little  less  prosy,  perhaps." 

Markham  watched  her  a  moment  in  silence,  his  wounds 
aching  dully. 

"I  came  here — to  warn  you  of  that — danger,"  he  said 
slowly.  "Since  you  don't  fear  it,  my  mission  is  ended." 
He  took  up  his  hat  and  stick  and  moved  toward  the  door. 
"I  shall  not  question  your  wisdom  or  your  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility to  me  or  to  yourself.  But  I  think  I  under- 
stand at  last  what  you  would  have  of  me.  Whatever  you 
wish,  of  course,  I  shall  do  without  question.  I  was  alone 
in  Normandy — or  with  someone  else,  if  you  like.  It  was 
my  Vagabondia — not  yours.  There  was  no  Philidor — 
no  Yvonne — no  Cleofonte  or  Stella — no  roses  of  Pere 
Guegou — no  roses  in  my  heart.  They're  withered  enough, 
God  knows.  You  wish  to  forget  them.  You  want  me  to 
remember  you  as  you  are- — to-day."  He  laughed.  "I 
think  I'll  have  no  difficulty  in  doing  so — or  helping  by 
my  silence  or  my  cooperation  in  carrying  out  any  plans 
you  may  have,  if  you  should  find  it  necessary  to  call  upon 
me." 

"I  thank  you,"  she  murmured,  her  head  bent. 

He  regarded  her  a  moment  steadily,  but  she  would  not 
meet  his  gaze.  'At  the  door  he  paused. 

"I  have  heard  of  your  reported  engagement,"  he  fin- 
ished more  slowly.  "I'd  like  you  to  know  that  I  had  too 
much  faith  in  you  to  believe  it.  But  I  think — indeed  I'm 
sure  I'm  ready  to  believe  it  now — -if  you  tell  me  it's  true." 

278 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  BUTTERFLY 

She  did  not  raise  her  head,  but  her  lips  moved  inarticu- 
lately. He  glanced  at  her  a  moment  longer  and  then, 
with  an  inclination  of  the  head,  passed  out  into  the  hall 
and  so  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

CIRCE   AND   THE   FOSSIL 

CHRISTMAS  had  come  and  gone  and  the  city  had 
struck  its  highest  note  of  winter  activity.    Those 
envied  mortals  who  compose  society,  pausing  for 
a  brief  moment  of  air  and  relaxation  in   the  holidays, 
plunged  again  into  the  arduous  treadmill  of  the  daily 
round,  urged  by  the  flying  lash  of  unrest,  creatures  of  a 
common  fate,  plodding  wearily  up  the  path  of  preferment, 
not  daring  to  falter  or  to  rest  under  the  pain  of  instant 
oblivion. 

Olga  Tcherny  paused  only  long  enough  to  catch  a 
deep  breath  after  her  momentous  interview  with  John 
Markham  in  Washington  Square  and  then  plunged  into 
the  busy  throng  with  De  Folligny  after.  She  had  heard 
with  some  interest  the  reports  of  Hermia  Challoner's 
engagement  to  Mr.  Morehouse,  but  it  had  made  no  very 
deep  impression  upon  her  mind.  She  only  considered  it, 
in  fact,  with  reference  to  its  possible  effect  upon  the  mind 
of  John  Markham,  who  she  soon  learned  was  avoiding  the 
social  scene,  as  had  been  his  custom,  before  she  had  made 
forcible  entry  into  his  studio  last  year  and  had  dragged 
him  forth  into  the  company  of  his  fellow  men. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  Hermia  was  playing  her 
^ame  rather  ruthlessly  and,  whatever  her  object,  John 
"Markham  and  she  for  the  present  at  least  were  at  cross 
purposes.  Olga  did  not  dare  to  go  to  see  him,  and  though 
her  door  stood  open  she  had  no  hope  that  he  would  enter 

280 


CIRCE   AND    THE   FOSSIL 

it  without  encouragement.     But  one  blithe  morning  she 
sent  him  a  note : 

What's  this  I  hear?  Can  it  be  true  that  your  nymph  has 
fled  from  the  woods  of  Pan  to  take  shelter  under  the  eaves  of 
a  Morehouse?  And  what  becomes  of  the  faun?  I  can't  be- 
lieve it — and  yet  my  rumor  comes  direct.  Do  satisfy  my 
craving  for  veracity,  won't  you?  I'd  like  awfully  to  see  you, 
if  you'll  forgive  and  forget.  I  can  now  give  you  positive 
assurances  that  you  will  be  quite  as  safe  in  my  drawing-room 
as  in  that  smudgy  place  where  you  immortalize  mediocrity. 
I'll  never  propose  to  you  again  as  long  as  I  live.  The  phan- 
tasy has  passed,  I  think.  Do  you  believe  me?  Come  and  see 
— but  'phone  first. 

Affectionately, 
OLGA. 

To  her  surprise,  he  came  the  following  afternoon. 
She  received  him  with  a  frank  and  careless  gayety  which 
put  him  very  much  at  his  ease.  He  marveled  at  her  as- 
surance and  the  resumption  of  the  little  airs  of  proprie- 
torship to  which  he  had  been  accustomed  before  the  visit 
to  Westport.  She  was  the  Olga  of  the  portrait  with  the 
added  graces  of  a  not  too  obtrusive  sympathy  arid  a  man- 
ner which  seemed  subtly  to  suggest  self-elimination.  He 
accepted  the  situation  without  mental  reservation,  sat  in 
the  chair  she  indicated  with  a  grateful  sigh  and  watched 
her  pretty  hands  busy  about  the  tea-tray.  Whatever 
their  relations  and  however  directly  he  could  trace  his 
present  misfortunes  to  her  very  door,  the  illusion  of  her 
friendliness  was  not  to  be  dispelled,  and  he  relinquished 
himself  to  its  charm  with  a  grateful  sense  that,  for  the 
moment  at  least,  here  was  sanctuary. 

She  found  him  thinner  and  said  so. 
281 


MADCAP 

"You're  working  too  hard,  my  dear  Markham,"  she 
said.  "On  every  hand  I  hear  of  people  you've  painted 
or  are  about  to  paint.  A  real  success — un  succes  fou — 
and  in  spite  of  yourself!  It's  quite  wonderful." 

"I've  painted  very  badly,"  he  muttered. 

"Oh,  you're  too  close  to  your  work  to  have  a  per- 
spective. Mrs.  Hammond  has  touted  you  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  town — you  know — and  that  means  there's 
a  pedestal  for  you  in  her  Hall  of  Fame.  What  does 
Immortality  taste  like?  Sweet?" 

He  laughed.  "Fame  in  New  York — is  merely  a  mat- 
ter of  dollars.  My  prices  are  enormous — hence  my  repu- 
tation. If  I  charged  what  the  things  are  worth,  these 
people  would  send  me  back  to  Paris." 

"And  still  you  refuse  to  go  to  their  houses?  I  hear 
that  Mrs.  Hammond  wanted  to  give  a  dinner  for  you — 
to  all  her  set — and  that's  quite  extraordinary  of  her — 
even  for  a  lion " 

"But  I  couldn't  eat  them,  you  know 


'But  you  could  let  them  watch  you  eat- 


"I  wouldn't  have  eaten.  You  see,  magnificence  of  that 
sort  takes  my  appetite  away." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I'm  a  crank.  They  speak 
another  language — those  people.  I  don't  understand 
them.  I  find  that  no  exertion  of  the  legs  brings  my  mind 
and  theirs  any  closer  together.  They  bore  me  stiff  and  I 
bore  them.  What's  the  use?" 

"You  have  no  social  ambitions  ?" 

"None  whatever — in  the  sense  you  mean.  I  like  my 
fellow  men  stripped  to  the  bone.  That's  indecent  when 
one  dines  out." 

"And  your  fellow  woman?" 
282 


CIRCE   AND   THE   FOSSIL 

He  shrugged  and  laughed. 

"She's  a  child — adorable  always.  But  then  I  never 
understand  her — nor  she  me." 

She  sipped  tea  and  smiled. 

"Woman  is  at  once  the  woman  and  the  serpent,  mon 
ami.  All  she  needs  is  a  man  and  a  Garden  of  Para- 
dise." 

He  frowned  into  his  teacup  but  did  not  reply. 

"It  is  true,  John?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"What  is  true?" 

"That  Hermia  is  to  marry  Trevvy  Morehouse?" 

"From  whom  did  you  hear  that?"  he  asked. 

"From  whom  have  I  not  heard  it?  Everyone.  Her- 
mia hasn't  denied  it,  has  she?" 

"Not  that  I'm  aware  of.  Why  should  she  deny  it? 
It's  her  own  affair." 

His  tone  rebuked  her. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  meddlesome,  you  know.  I  only 
thought " 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  you  spoke,"  he  murmured.  "I — I 
wanted  to  talk  about  her.  You  know,  you  and  I — when 
you  left  me — there  in  the  Park — you  gave  me  the  im- 
pression that  you — er — that  you  didn't  care  for  Miss 
Challoner  any  more 

"Did  I?  I'm  glad  I  did.  That's  the  truth.  I  don't 
care  for  her.  She  cut  me  very  prettily  on  the  street  the 
week  after  she  got  back  from  Europe.  Evidently  the 
antipathy  is  mutual." 

He  paused,  considering. 

"I'm  sorry  she  saw  fit  to  do  that.  That  was  foolish — 
very  foolish  of  her." 

"Wasn't  it?     Especially  as  I  had  about  decided  to 

forget  that  I'd  ever  been  in  Alenfon " 

283 


MADCAP          

He  put  his  hand  over  hers  and  held  it  there  a  moment. 

"I  want  you  to  forget  that,  Olga,"  he  muttered.  "It 
• — it  never  happened." 

She  smiled,  her  gaze  on  the  andirons. 

"You're  quite  positive  of  that?" 

"Yes.    I  was — er — in  Holland  last  summer." 

"Oh,  were  you?" 

"Yes.  And  Hermia — Miss  Challoner  was  in  Switzer- 
land." 

"Yes.  So  I  hear.  Very  interesting.  But  how  does 
that  explain  things  to  Pierre  de  Folligny?  He  met  her 
the  other  day — and  remembered  her  perfectly " 

Markham  rose  and  paced  the  floor. 

"Oh,"  he  heard  her  saying,  "she  denied  seeing  him  in 
France,  of  course, — but  it  was  quite  awkward — for  her,  I 
mean." 

He  took  two  or  three  turns,  his  brows  serious,  and 
then  came  and  stood  near  her  at  the  mantelpiece. 

"You  must  straighten  things  out,  Olga — with  De  Fol- 
ligny," he  muttered.  "It  will  ruin  her,  if  he  speaks — 
you  know  what  New  York  is.  Gossip  like  that  travels 
like  fire.  And  she  doesn't  deserve  it — not  that.  You've 
told  me  that  you  don't  believe  in  her  innocence,  but  at 
heart  I  think  you  do.  You  must.  I  swear  to  you — on  the 
honor  of " 

She  raised  a  hand. 

"Don't — !"  quickly.  "I'm  willing  to  assume  her  inno- 
cence. Haven't  I  told  you  that  I  had  been  prepared  to 
forget  the  whole  incident — when  she  cut  me.  Why  did  she 
do  that?  What  does  that  mean?" 

"Not  guilt  surely — wouldn't  she  be  trying  to  get  you 
on  her  side  ?" 

Olga  waved  an  expressive  hand. 
284 


CIRCE  ZND   THE   FOSSIL 

"Oh,  that's  impossible — and  she  knows  it." 

"Why?" 

She  paused,  shielding  her  eyes  with  her  fingers.  He 
was  such  an  innocent.  But  she  had  no  notion  of  enlight- 
ening him. 

"She  has  given  you  up — to  marry.  That's  clear.  I 
hold  her  secret.  The  simplest  way  out  of  her  difficulty 
is  to  ignore  me.  Well — let  her.  I  don't  mind.  I'll  sur- 
vive. But  I  would  give  my  ears  to  let  Fifth  Avenue 
know " 

"No — no,"  he  put  in  quickly,  "you  mustn't  do  that — 
If  you've  ceased  to  care  for  her,  you've  got  your  duty 
to  me  to  consider.  Do  you  hold  my  honor  so  lightly " 

"Yours?" 

"Yes.  She  was  in  my  care.  I  let  her  go  with  me. 
The  responsibility  was  sacred.  I  was  morally  pledged 
to  keep  her  from  harm.  That  responsibility  has  not 
ceased  because  she  no  longer — because  she  has  made  up 
her  mind  to — to  marry.  It's  greater  even.  If  you  ever 
told  that  story " 

"And  De  Folligny?    You  forget  him " 

He  came  quickly  over  and  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"You  can  seal  this  secret,  if  you  will,  as  in  a  tomb. 
Do  it,  Olga.  It  will  be  magnificent  of  you.  Give  me  your 
word — your  promise  to  keep  silent — to  keep  De  Folligny 
silent—" 

She  had  turned,  her  chin  upon  her  shoulder,  away 
from  him. 

"You  ask  a  great  deal,"  she  said  with  reluctance. 

"Not  more  than  you  can  give — not  more  than  you 
will  give.  Whatever  your — your  differences  she  doesn't 
deserve  this  of  you.  Will  it  give  you  pleasure  in  after 
years  to  think  of  her  life  embittered — of  his  life  embit- 

285 


MADCAP ^^ 

tered,  too,  by  a  piece  of  gossip,  woven  out  of  a  tissue  of 
half-truths — that  will  damn  her — as  half-truths  do?" 

"You  love  her  so  much  as  this?"  she  gasped. 

He  relinquished  her  hand — stood  a  moment  looking 
dumbly  at  her  and  then  walked  the  length  of  the  room 
away.  The  little  clock  on  the  mantel  ticked  gaily,  the 
fire  sparkled  and  the  familiar  sounds  of  the  careless  city 
came  faintly  to  their  ears.  She  stirred  and  he  turned 
toward  her. 

"Will  you  promise?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Promise  what?" 

"Not  to  speak — of  what  you  saw  at  Alen9on." 

"Yes.    I  promise  that,"  she  said  slowly  at  last. 

"Or  let  De  Folligny  speak?" 

Another  silence.      And  then  from  thinned  lips. 

"I — I  will  use  my  influence — to  keep  him  silent." 

The  firmness  of  her  tone  assured  him.  He  caught  up 
her  hands  and  pressed  them  softly  to  his  lips. 

"I  knew  you  would,  Olga.  I  knew  you  were  bigger 
than  that.  I  thank  you — I  will  never  forget " 

But  before  he  could  finish  she  had  snatched  her  fingers 
away  from  him  and  was  laughing  softly  at  the  tea-caddy. 

"Now,  if  you  please,"  she  said  composedly,  "we  will 
speak  of  pleasanter  things." 

She  opened  a  long  silver  box  on  the  table  and  took 
a  cigarette,  offering  him  one. 

"The  pipe  of  peace?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  like." 

He  drew  in  the  smoke  gratefully. 

"Olga,  you're  a  trump,"  he  said  with  a  genuine  hearti- 
ness. 

"Thanks,"  she  said  dryly.  "I  know  it.  And  you're 
playing  me  quite  successfully — aren't  you?  Hearts? 

286 


CIRCE   'AND    THE   FOSSIL 

and  I'm  the  'dummy.'  I  never  liked  playing  the 
'dummy.' ' 

He  laughed. 

"I  wish  I  were  quite  sure  in  my  mind  what  you  do  like 
to  play." 

Her  look  questioned  coolly. 

"I  mean,  that,  as  well  as  I've  thought  I've  known  you, 
I  find  that  I've  never  known  you  at  all.  You're  a  creature 
of  bewildering  transitions.  I  hear  that  you're  going  to 
marry  De  Folligny." 

"And  what  if  I  am?"  she  flashed  at  him. 

"I'm  sure  I  wish  you  every  happiness.     Only " 

He  paused. 

"Please  finish." 

"Nothing — except  that  you  will  leave  me  with  an  un- 
pleasant sense  of  having  been  made  a  fool  of." 

She  rose,  flicked  her  cigarette  into  the  fire  and  then 
turned  as  if  about  to  speak.  But  thought  better  of  it. 
There  was  a  long  silence. 

"Pierre  de  Folligny  and  I  are  friends  of  long  stand- 
ing," she  said  at  last.  "One  marries  some  day.  Why 
not  an  old  friend?  The  age  of  madness  passes — I  am 

almost  thirty  and  I  have  lived — much.  It  is  time " 

she  finished  wearily,  "time  that  I  married  again.  We 
understand  each  other  perfectly."  A  smile  slowly  dawned 
and  broke.  "What  one  wants  in  a  husband  is  not  so 
much  a  rhapsodist  as  a  rhymester,  not  so  much  a  lover 
as  a  walking-gentleman — Pierre  is  that,  you  know." 

She  sighed  again  and  rose. 

"It  was  very  sweet  of  you  to  come  in,  John.  Don't 

misunderstand  me  again.  That "  and  she  paused  to 

give  the  word  emphasis,  "is  all  over.  I'm  quite  safe  as  a 
confidante.  Hermia  has  treated  you  very  badly,  I  think. 

287 


MADCAP 


I'd  like  to  tell  her  so — No?  Well,  good-bye.  Do  come 
in  again.  I  want  you  to  know  Pierre  better.  He  really 
is  all  that  a  walking-gentleman  should  be." 

He  laughed  and  kissed  her  fingers,  and  in  a  moment 
had  gone. 

Olga  Tcherny  stood  immovable  where  he  had  left  her, 
one  foot  upon  the  fender,  her  gaze  upon  the  fire.  After  a 
time  she  stretched  forth  her  fingers  to  the  blaze.  All 
over!  She  straightened  slowly  and  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  face  in  the  mirror.  The  firelight  gleamed  under  her 
brows,  brought  out  with  unpleasant  sharpness  the  angle 
of  her  jaw  and  touched  the  bones  of  her  cheek  caressingly. 
She  looked  again,  the  truth  compelling  her,  and  then 
buried  her  face  in  her  arm.  The  truth — middle  age,  had 
set  its  first  mark  upon  her.  The  sallow  fingers  of  Time 
had  touched  her  lightly,  more  as  a  warning  than  as  a 
prophecy,  painted  with  a  reluctant  brush  a  deeper  tone 
into  the  shadows,  a  higher  note  in  the  lights,  had 
brushed  in  haltingly  the  false  values  that  now  mocked  at 
her.  Time !  She  seemed  to  count  it  by  her  heart-throbs. 

She  walked  across  the  room  and  stood  before  the  por- 
trait John  Markham  had  painted  of  her.  The  face  gazed 
out  from  its  shadows,  its  eyes  met  hers  for  a  moment, 
then  looked  through  her  and  beyond,  eyes  which  looked, 
yet  saw  not,  eyes  deep  and  inscrutable,  seers  of  visions, 
bathed  in  memories  which  would  not  sink  into  oblivion. 
Her  eyes  he  had  painted  carefully.  For  him  it  seemed 
the  rest  of  the  face  had  been  a  blank.  The  nose,  the  chin, 
were  hers,  and  the  mouth — the  lips,  a  scarlet  smudge  of 
illusiveness.  They  were  hers,  too.  He  had  had  difficulty 
with  her  lips,  painting  and  repainting  them.  They  had 
puzzled  him.  "The  eyes  we  are  born  with,"  he  had  said — 

288 


CIRCE   rAND   THE  FOSSIL 

how  well  she  remembered  it  now!  "The  lips  are  what  we 
make  ourselves."  At  last  he  had  painted  them  in  quickly 
— almost  brutally  and  let  them  be.  They  seemed  to  mock 
at  her  now — to  contradict  the  meaning  of  the  eyes — 
which  would  not,  could  not,  smile. 

Hermia  had  scoffed  at  this  portrait  because  it  was 
not  "pretty."  There  was  something  bigger  than  mere 
prettiness  here.  He  had  painted  the  soul  of  her,  reading 
with  his  art  what  had  been  hidden  from  the  man,  as  he  had 
strayed  through  the  labyrinth  of  her  thoughts  viewing  the 
blighted  blossom  of  her  girlhood  and  wifehood  and  the 
neglected  garden  of  her  maturity.  As  she  viewed  the 
portrait  now  in  the  light  of  time  and  event,  she  saw,  more 
clearly  than  ever,  her  soul  and  body  as  Markham  had  seen 
it.  He  had  painted  her  as  he  would  have  painted  char- 
acter— an  old  man  or  an  old  woman,  searching  for  shad- 
ows rather  than  lights,  seeking  the  anatomy  of  sorrow 
rather  than  that  of  joy — had  made  her  the  subject  of  a 
cool  and  not  too  flattering  psychological  investigation. 
Was  this  how  he  had  always  seen  her?  This  far-looking, 
inscrutable,  satiated  woman  of  the  world,  who  peered 
forth  into  the  future,  from  the  dull  embers  of  the  past 
— a  being  whose  physical  beauty  was  rather  suggested 
than  expressed — whose  loveliness  lay  in  what  she  might 
have  been  rather  than  in  what  she  was?  He  had  always 
thought  of  her  thus? 

She  rubbed  her  eyes  and  looked  again.  Not,  not 
always.  She  remembered  now — he  couldn't  have  painted 
her  as  he  had  painted  others — as  he  had  painted  a  while 
ago  the  portrait  of  Phyllis  Van  Vorst — carelessly,  con- 
temptuously. He  had  probed  deeply — painted  from  his 
own  deeps.  They  had  been  very  close  together  in  those 
hours,  mentally,  spiritually,  and  only  the  barrier  she  her- 

289 


MADCAP 

self  had  raised  prevented  their  physical  nearness.  That, 
too,  she  could  have  had? 

A  mist  fell  across  the  canvas  and  Hermia's  vision  in- 
terposed, rosy  and  careless,  her  braggart  youth  trium- 
phant. 

She  turned,  threw  herself  upon  the  couch  and  buried 
her  head,  her  fingers  clenched,  in  the  pillows.  She  made 
no  sound  and  lay  so  immovable  that  one  might  have 
thought  she  was  sleeping.  But  her  blood  was  coursing 
madly  and  her  pulses  throbbed  at  wrist  and  neck.  She 
had  been  true  to  her  better  self — with  Markham — and  her 
idealism  had  brought  her  only  this  void  of  barren  regret. 
Whichever  way  she  looked  into  the  past  or  into  the  future, 
the  vista  was  empty ;  behind  her  only  the  echoes  of  voices 
and  a  grim  shape  or  two ;  before  her — vacancy.  She  had 
bared  her  soul  to  Markham,  there  in  the  Square,  torn 
away  the  veil  of  her  pride  and  let  him  know  the  truth. 
Why,  God  knew.  She  had  been  mad.  She  had  believed 
the  worst  of  Hermia  and  of  him,  and  had  offered  herself 
to  him  that  he  might  judge  between  them — her  heart  and 
Hermia's,  her  mind,  her  body  and  Hermia's.  Was  her 
own  face  no  longer  fair  that  he  should  have  looked  at  her 
so  curiously  and  turned  away  with  Hermia's  name  on  his 
lips,  Hermia's  image  in  his  heart?  A  doubt  had  crept  into 
her  mind  and  lingered  insidiously.  Hermia  innocent! 
She  was  beginning  to  believe  it  now.  In  spite  of  the 
damning  facts  she  had  discovered,  the  evidence  of  Ma- 
dame Bordier  and  Monsieur  Duchanel,  of  the  peasant 
woman  at  Tillieres  and  of  Pierre  de  Folligny,  the  testi- 
mony of  Hermia's  pale  face  at  the  shooting  lodge  at 
Alen9on  and  of  her  confession  which  she  had  not  thought 
of  doubting,  the  belief  had  slowly  gained  force  in  her 
mind  that  Markham  had  not  lied  to  her.  She  found  con- 

290 


CIRCE  5LND  THE  FOSSIL 

firmation  of  it  in  Hermia  Challoner's  disappearance  in 
France,  in  her  attitude  toward  Markham  and  in  the  an- 
nouncement of  her  engagement  to  another  man.  Mark- 
ham  could  not  guess,  as  she  did  now,  that  this  was  only  a 
ruse  de  femme,  born  of  the  access  of  timidity  at  the  dis- 
'covery  of  her  indiscretion  and  the  consciousness  that  she 
had  gone  too  far  with  Markham,  who  must  be  punished  for 
his  share  in  her  downfall.  It  seemed  pitifully  clear  now. 

Olga's  bitterness  choked  and  whelmed  her.  It  seemed 
even  worse  that  Hermia  should  be  innocent.  She  dared 
not  think  of  the  picture  she  had  made  in  Markham's 
mind  when  she  had  thrown  herself  into  the  scales  that  he 
might  weigh  their  frailties  and  compare  them.  Hermia 
innocent !  How  Olga  hated  her  for  it,  and  for  her  youth 
and  beauty.  They  mocked  and  derided  the  tender  flame 
that  she  had  nourished,  which  now  glowed  ineffectually 
as  in  another,  a  greater  light.  She  hated  Hermia  for  all 
the  things  that  she  herself  was  not. 

Lucidity  came  to  her  slowly.  After  a  long  while  she 
raised  a  disordered  face  and  leaned  her  chin  upon  her 
hands,  staring  at  the  dying  log.  She  had  promised  him 
not  to  speak.  She  could  not.  She  had  even  promised 
to  persuade  De  Folligny  to  silence.  Had  he  mentioned 
the  incident  already?  She  did  not  know.  He  was  not  by 
nature  a  gossip,  but  Hermia  had  not  been  too  tactful  and 
it  was  a  good  story — the  sanctity  of  which,  upon  the 
mind  of  a  man  of  De  Folligny's  temperament,  might  not 
be  impressive.  She  would  keep  her  promise  to  Markham 
and  persuade  Pierre  to  silence.  No  one  should  know  by 
word  of  mouth 

Olga  started  up,  her  eyes  wide  open,  staring  at  the 
opposite  wall,  where  there  hung  a  colored  print  of  a  wood- 
land scene  by  Morland,  and  a  smile  slowly  grew  at  one  end 

291 


MADCAP   

of  her  lips,  a  crooked  smile,  that  might  have  been  merely 
quizzical,  had  not  the  impression  been  unpleasantly  modi- 
fied by  the  narrowing  eyes  and  the  tiny  wrinkle  that  sud- 
denly grew  between  her  brows. 

"I  will  do  it,"  she  muttered.    "It  may  be  amusing." 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

MRS.    BERKELEY    HAMMOND    ENTERTAINS 

THE   heritage   of  the  world   comes   at  last  to   the 
pachyderms.    Fate  is  never  so  unkind  as  to  those 
who  blindly  resist  her  and  into  the  lap  of  stoic 
and  unimpressionable  she  pours  the  horn  of  plenty. 

Trevelyan  Morehouse  had  gone  through  life  on  the 
low  gear.  In  fact  he  had  no  change  of  gears  and  needed 
none.  He  never  "hit  it  up"  on  the  smooth  places  or 
burned  out  his  tires  on  the  rough  ones,  and  was  therefore 
always  to  be  found  in  perfect  repair.  He  was  a  good  hill 
climber  and  had  a  way  of  arriving  at  his  destination  no 
matter  how  difficult  the  going.  When  others  passed  him 
he  let  them  go,  and  plodded  on  after  them  with  solemn 
assurance,  his  gait  so  leisurely  that  rapid  travelers  had 
the  habit  of  regarding  his  conservatism  with  undisguised 
contempt.  And  yet  his  perseverance,  though  inconspicu- 
ous, was  singularly  effective.  He  had  won  his  way  into 
the  sanctorum  of  a  big  corporation  and  his  advice,  though 
never  brilliant,  was  always  sane  and  peculiarly  reliable. 
He  did  not  mind  rebuffs  and  was  so  indifferent  to  indig- 
nities that  people  had  ceased  to  offer  them.  Socially  he 
could  always  be  trusted  to  do  the  usual  thing  in  the 
usual  way  and  was  therefore  always  much  in  demand  by 
hostesses  who  required  conventional  limitations.  In  a 
word  he  was  "the  excellent  Trevelyan."  and  the  adjective 

293 


MADCAP 

fitted  him  as  snugly  as  it  did  the  well-known  comestible 
with  which  it  had  come  to  be  so  comfortably  and  freely 
associated.  His  excellence  lay  largely  in  the  fact  that  he 
did  not  excel.  He  was  content  with  his  subordinate  ca- 
pacity, wise  in  his  confidence  that  all  things  would  come 
to  him  in  the  end,  if  he  only  waited  long  enough. 

The  same  rules  which  he  had  found  so  successful  in 
business  he  now  applied  to  his  affair  of  the  heart,  and 
plodded  off  in  the  wake  of  the  fast  flying  Hermia,  imper- 
turbable and  undismayed.  His  flowers  had  been  sent  to 
her  with  the  regularity  of  the  clock,  his  visits  carefully 
timed,  and  his  proposals  renewed  with  a  well-bred  ardor. 
He  had  waited  patiently  through  Hermia's  short  and 
sportive  attachment  for  "Reggie"  Armistead,  and  when 
their  "trial"  engagement  reached  its  tempestuous  conclu- 
sion, had  stepped  softly  into  the  breach,  rosy  with  hope 
and  a  definite  sense  that  his  time  had  come.  Hermia  liked 
him — had  liked  him  for  years.  She  had  gotten  used  to 
him  as  one  does  to  a  familiar  chair  or  an  article  of  diet. 
He  was  a  habit  with  her  like  her  bedroom  slippers  or  her 
afternoon  tea.  He  was  comfortable,  always  safe  and 
quite  sane,  which  she  was  not,  and  she  accepted  him  in  the 
guise  of  counselor  and  friend  with  the  same  cheerful  tol- 
erance that  she  gave  to  her  Aunt  Harriet  Westfield  or  to 
Mr.  Winthrop  of  the  Pilgrim  Trust  Company. 

When  Hermia  departed  suddenly  for  Europe,  her 
sportive  idyl  so  suddenly  shattered,  Mr.  Morehouse  fol- 
lowed her  in  the  next  steamer.  She  had  given  him  no 
definite  encouragement,  it  was  true,  and  yet  he  found 
reasons  to  hope  that  the  time  was  at  hand  when  she  must 
make  some  definite  decision.  In  Europe  her  brief  disap- 
pearance from  the  scene  of  her  usual  activities  had  mysti- 
fied him  and  her  return  to  her  hotel,  shabby  and  uncom- 

294 


MRS.   HAMMOND   ENTERTAINS 

municative,  had  aroused  a  chagrin  and  an  anxiety  quite 
unusual  to  him;  but  he  had  sat  and  waited  her  pleasure, 
survived  her  turbulent  moods  and  had  found  his  patience 
at  last  rewarded  by  her  silent  acquiescence  in  his  pres- 
ence, and  by  an  invitation  to  accompany  her  to  Switzer- 
land, where  she  was  to  join  her  Aunt  Julia  and  the  chil- 
dren. 

From  the  vantage  point  of  his  office  window  down 
town,  where  he  now  sat  and  viewed  the  bleak  perspective 
of  the  city,  his  memories  of  the  summer  with  Hermia 
seemed  a  strange  compound  of  brief  blisses  and  more  en- 
during pangs.  They  had  been  much  seen  together  and 
the  announcement  of  their  engagement  which  had  ap- 
peared in  the  newspapers  had  not  been  surprising.  Aunt 
Julia  had  favored  his  suit  and  Mrs.  Westfield  had  given 
him  to  understand  that  it  was  time  Hermia  married.  But 
the  fact  remained  that  Hermia  had  not  accepted  him. 
His  insistence  had  always  provoked  and  still  provoked 
one  of  two  moods — either  resentment  or  mockery.  She 
either  dismissed  him  in  a  dudgeon  or  cajoled  him  with 
elusive  banter.  Why  was  he  so  impatient?  There  was 
plenty  of  time?  Was  he  sure  that  he  wanted  to  marry 
her  ?  Wliat  did  he  really  know  about  her  heart  of  hearts  ? 
Perhaps,  if  he  knew  her  better  he  might  not  want  to 
marry  her.  He  pleaded  in  patient  calm.  The  world,  it 
seemed,  thought  them  engaged.  Why  shouldn't  heJae  per- 
mitted to  think  so.  She  only  laughed  at  him  and  her 
heart  of  hearts  had  come  to  be  the  most  profound  enigma 
that  it  had  ever  been  his  fortune  to  study.  So  the  prize, 
which  he  had  thought  most  surely  his  own,  still  hung 
reluctantly  upon  the  lip  of  the  horn  of  plenty.  It  would 
not  fall,  and  all  the  traditions  of  his  experience  forbade 
that  he  should  jostle  it.  And  so  he  only  watched  with 

295 


patient  eyes  and  a  physical  restraint  which  could  only  be 
described  as  "excellent." 

What  did  she  mean  by  saying  that  if  he  knew  her 
better  he  might  not  want  to  marry  her?  Vague  doubts 
assailed  him.  Did  he,  after  all,  know  her?  What  was 
this  chapter  of  her  life  of  which  he  knew  nothing  and  to 
which  she  had  so  frequently  alluded?  Was  it  some- 
thing which  had  happened  to  her  in  America?  Or  had  it 
something  to  do  with  her  disappearance  last  summer  from 
Paris,  after  which  she  had  returned  sober  and  intolerant? 
He  gave  it  up.  He  was  always  giving  her  up  and  then 
putting  his  doubts  of  her  in  his  pocket  with  his  neat  hand- 
kerchief, plodding  sedulously  as  before.  He  must  wait. 
Everything  that  he  had  got  in  life  had  come  from  waiting 
and  Hermia,  his  philosophy  told  him,  must  be  no  excep- 
tion to  the  rule. 

The  winter  drew  on  toward  spring.  Lent  arrived, 
and  society,  quite  bored  and  thoroughly  exhausted,  halted 
in  the  mad  round  of  the  "one-step"  and  turned  to  calmer 
delights.  Country  places  in  adjacent  counties  were 
opened  and  guests  flitted  from  one  house  to  the  other  in  a 
continuous  round  of  visits. 

Mrs.  Berkeley  Hammond's  invitations,  whether  to  the 
big  house  near  the  Park  or  to  Rood's  Knoll,  her  place 
in  the  country,  were  much  in  demand.  The  Hammonds 
had  unlimited  means,  the  social  instinct,  worthy  family 
traditions,  and  a  talent  for  entertainment,  a  combina- 
tion of  qualities  and  circumstances  which  explained  the 
importance  of  this  family  in  the  social  life  of  the  city. 
The  mantle  of  an  older  leader  who  had  passed  had  fallen 
comfortably  on  Mrs.  Hammond's  capacious  shoulders  and 
she  wore  it  with  a  familiar  grace  which  gave  the  impres- 
sion that  it  had  always  been  there.  Conservative,  the 

296 


MRS.   HAMMOND   ENTERTAINS 

more  radical  called  her,  and  radical,  the  conservative; 
but  her  taste  and  her  chef  were  both  above  reproach,  and 
her  dinners,  whether  large  or  small,  had  the  distinction 
which  only  comes  of  a  rare  order  of  tact  and  discrimina- 
tion. Nor  were  her  hospitalities  confined  to  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  indigenous.  Visitors  to  New  York,  foreign 
celebrities,  literary,  artistic  or  political,  found  within  her 
doors  a  welcome  and  a  company  exactly  suited  to  their 
social  requirements.  She  liked  young  people,  too,  and 
contrived  to  let  them  know  it,  to  the  end  that  her  dances, 
while  formal,  were  gay  rather  than  "stodgy,"  juvenescent 
rather  than  patriarchal. 

The  house  at  Rood's  Knoll  was  a  huge  affair,  of  brick 
and  timbered  plaster,  set  in  the  midst  of  its  thousand 
acres  of  woodland  in  the  heart  of  the  hills.  Lent  found 
it  full  of  people  and  its  gayety  was  reflected  in  other 
houses  of  the  neighborhood  whose  owners,  like  the  Ham- 
monds, kept  open  house.  There  was  much  to  do.  March 
went  out  like  a  lion  and  the  snow  which  kept  the  more 
timid  indoors  at  the  cards  made  wonderful  coasting  and 
sledding,  of  which  latter  these  wearied  children  of  fortune 
were  not  slow  to  take  advantage.  The  ponds  were  frozen, 
too,  and  skating  was  added  to  the  sum  of  their  rural  de- 
lights. 

Hermia  Challoner,  who  was  visiting  Caroline  Anstell, 
joined  feverishly  in  these  pursuits,  glad  of  the  oppor- 
tunity they  afforded  her  of  relief  from  her  personal  prob- 
lems. There  were  some  of  her  intimates  here  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, but  she  found  greater  security  in  the  society  of 
an  older  set  of  whom  she  had  seen  little  in  town  and  in  the 
pleasure  of  picking  up  the  loose  ends  of  these  acquaint- 
anceships she  managed  to  forget,  at  least  temporarily, 
her  sword  of  Damocles.  Olga  Tcherny  was  one  of  Mrs» 

297 


MADCAP 

Berkeley  Hammond's  house  guests,  but  she  had  not  been 
in  evidence  on  either  of  the  occasions  when  Hermia  had 
called.  There  was  some  excitement  over  an  evening  which 
Mrs.  Hammond  was  planning  to  take  place  in  the  country 
during  the  latter  days  of  Lent.  The  invitations  were 
noncommittal  and  merely  mentioned  the  date  and  hour, 
but  it  was  understood  that  "everyone"  was  to  be  there, 
and  that  an  entertainment  a  little  out  of  the  ordinary 
was  to  be  provided. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  a  pleasurable  anticipation  that 
Hermia  got  down  from  the  Anstell's  machine  on  the  ap- 
pointed evening,  and  followed  her  party  into  the  great 
house.  The  rooms  were  comfortably  filled,  but  not 
crowded,  and  it  seemed  that  the  women  had  done  their  best 
to  add  their  share  to  the  merely  decorative  requirements 
of  the  occasion.  The  ball-room  lights  shimmered  softly 
on  the  rich  tissues  of  their  costumes,  and  caught  in  the 
facets  of  the  jewels  on  their  bared  shoulders.  Society 
was  at  its  best,  upon  its  good  behavior,  patiently  eking 
out  the  few  short  days  that  remained  to  it  of  the  peni- 
tential season.  Hermia  managed  to  elude  the  watchful 
Trevelyan  and  entered  the  ball-room  with  Beatrice  Cod- 
dington  and  Caroline  Anstell.  Just  inside  she  found  her- 
self face  to  face  with  the  Countess  Tcherny.  She  would 
have  passed  on,  but  Olga  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"So  glad  to  see  you,  Hermia,  dear,"  she  purred,  her 
eyes  lighting.  "It's  really  dreadfully  unlucky  how  seldom 
we've  met  this  winter.  You're  a  little  thinner,  aren't  you? 
But  it  becomes  you  awfully." 

"Thanks,"  said  Hermia.     "I'm  quite  well." 

"I  hope  you'll  like  the  play,  you  know  I "  and  she 

^hispered.    "Nobody  knows — /  wrote  it." 

298 


MRS.   HAMMOND   ENTERTAINS 

"Oh,  really,"  Hermia  smiled  coplly.  "I  hope  it's 
quite  moral." 

"Oh,  you  must  judge  for  yourself,"  said  Olga,  and 
disappeared. 

The  men,  having  searched  the  premises  vainly  for  the 
bridge  tables,  resigned  themselves  to  the  inevitable  and 
drifted  by  twos  and  threes  into  the  ball-room,  where  they 
melted  into  the  gay  company  which  was  now  seated,  or 
stood  along  the  back  and  side  walls,  making  a  somber 
background  for  the  splendid  plumage  of  their  dinner- 
partners. 

"Tableaux-vivants,  for  a  dollar!"  said  Archie  West- 
cott  in  bored  desperation. 

"Oh,  rot !"  blurted  out  Crosby  Downs  in  contempt. 
"What's  the  use?  They'll  be  havin'  Mrs.  Jarley's  wax- 
works next " 

"Or  the  'Dream  of  Fair  Women' " 


"Or  charades.  Not  a  card  in  sight — or  a  cigar! 
Rotten  taste — I'd  call  it." 

The  music  of  the  orchestra  silenced  these  protests 
and  a  ripple  of  expectation  passed  over  the  audience  as 
the  curtain  rose,  disclosing  a  sylvan  glade  and  a  startled 
nymph  in  meager  draperies  hiding  from  a  faun.  The 
music  trembled  for  a  moment  and  then,  as  the  nymph  was 
discovered,  broke  into  wild  concords  through  which  the 
violins  sang  tunefully  as  the  chase  began.  It  was  not  for 
some  moments  that  the  audience  awoke  to  the  fact  that 
these  must  be  the  Austrian  dancers  whose  visit  to  New 
York  had  been  so  widely  heralded.  Captured  at  last, 
the  nymph  was  submissive,  and  the  dance  which  followed 
revealed  artistry  of  an  order  with  which  most  of  the  spec- 
tators were  unfamiliar.  Even  Crosby  Downs  ceased  to 
grumble  and  wedged  himself  down  the  side  wall  where  he 

299 


could  have  a  better  view.  The  dance  ended  amid  applause 
and  the  audience  now  really  aroused  from  its  lethargy 
eagerly  awaited  the  next  rise  of  the  curtain. 

The  first  part  of  the  program,  it  seemed,  was  to  be  a 
vaudeville.  A  famous  tenor  sang  folk  songs  of  sunny 
Italy;  two  French  pantomimists  did  a  graceful  and 
amusing  Pierrot  and  Pierrette;  a  comedian  did  a  black- 
face monologue;  and  the  first  part  of  the  program  con- 
cluded with  the  performance  of  a  young  violinist,  the  son 
of  a  Russian  tobacconist  down  town,  whom  Mrs.  Berkeley 
Hammond  had  "discovered"  and  was  now  sending  to 
Europe  to  complete  his  musical  education.  A  budding 
genius,  was  the  verdict,  almost  ready  to  blossom.  The 
brief  period  of  disquiet  which  had  followed  Hermia's 
meeting  with  Olga,  had  been  forgotten  in  her  enjoyment 
of  the  performance  and  in  the  gay  chatter  of  her  com- 
panions and  of  her  neighbors  back  and  front.  When  the 
curtain  had  fallen  upon  the  violinist,  there  was  a  rustle 
of  programs. 

"  'The  Lady  Orchestra,'  some  one  back  of  her  read 

aloud.  'A  Comedy  with  a  Sting 5  What's  coming 

now?  What's  a  'Lady  Orchestra'?  Does  anyone  know?" 

"A  'Lady  Orchestra,'  my  dear  Phyllis,"  said  Reggie 
Armistead,  "is  an  orchestra  lady." 

"An  orchestra  lady!     I  wonder  what  she  plays ' 

"The  devil  probably — he's  your  most  familiar  instru- 
ment." 

"Reggie!     I'm  surprised  at  you.     You  know " 

The  remainder  of  Miss  Van  Vorst's  speech  was  lost 
to  Hermia,  who  sat  staring  speechless  at  the  stage  cur- 
tain, her  body  suddenly  ice-cold,  all  its  blood  throbbing 
in  her  temples.  "The  Lady  Orchestra !"  The  words  had 
fallen  so  lightly  that  their  significance  had  dawned  upon 

300 


MRS.   HAMMOND   ENTERTAINS 

her  slowly.  This  play — this  "comedy  with  a  sting"  was 
about  her — Hermia — and  John  Markham.  Olga  had 
written  it,  and  was  even  now  watching  her  face  for  some 
sign  of  weakness.  Olga,  De  Folligny — and  how  many 
others  ?  Terror  gripped  her — blind  terror,  every  instinct 
urging  flight.  But  this,  she  knew,  was  impossible.  She 
stared  hard  at  the  red  curtain,  and  swallowed  nervously, 
sure  now  that,  whatever  the  play  revealed,  she  must  sit 
until  its  end,  giving  no  sign  of  the  tumult  that  raged 
within  her.  The  eyes  of  the  audience  burned  into  the 
back  of  her  head,  and  she  seemed  to  read  a  knowledge 
of  her  secret  in  every  careless  glance  thrown  in  her  direc- 
tion. This  was  a  vengeance  worthy  of  Olga — the  refine- 
ment of  cruelty. 

"What  is   it,   Hermia,"   she  heard   Caroline  Anstell 
whispering.     "Are  you  ill,  dear?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all.    Why  do  you  ask?"  coolly. 

"I  thought  you  looked  a  little  tired." 

"I — I  think  it's  the  heat,"  said  Hermia.  "Sh — Carrie, 
there  goes  the  curtain." 

If  Hermia  had  been  startled  a  moment  ago,  she  now 
learned  that  she  would  have  need  of  all  her  courage.  The 
curtain  revealed  the  market-place  of  a  French  town  on  a 
fete  day.  To  the  left  a  row  of  penny  shows,  a  "man 
hedgehog,"  an  "homme  sauvage"  and  an  Albino  lady  who 
told  fortunes ;  to  the  right  a  platform  backed  by  a  canvas 
wall,  surmounted  by  a  sign  in  huge  letters  "Theatre  Tony 
Ricardo"  flanked  by  rudely  painted  representations  of  the 
acts  which  were  to  be  seen  within.  The  setting  was  ad- 
mirable and  brought  forth  immediate  applause  from  the 
audience,  under  which  Hermia  hid  her  gasp  of  dismay. 
There  were  even  pictures  like  those  which  Philidor  had 
painted,  of  Cleofonte  breaking  chains  and  of  the  child 

301 


MADCAP 

Stella  flying  in  mid-air,  and  at  one  side  the  legend  "Aris- 
tide  Bruant,  painter  of  portraits  at  two  francs  fifty — 
soldiers  ten  sous."  Sure  now  of  the  scene  which  was  to 
follow,  but  outwardly  quite  composed,  Hermia  listened 
carelessly  to  the  dialogue,  saw  the  acrobat  appear,  and 
the  "Lady  Orchestra,"  who  was  the  guilty  heroine  of  the 
piece,  take  her  place  upon  the  platform  beside  him.  Here 
the  resemblance  to  reality  ceased,  for  the  heroine  was 
dark  and  Aristide  blonde  and  beardless,  and  yet  this  very 
discrimination  on  Olga's  part  seemed  to  point  more  defi- 
nitely to  Hermia  even  than  if  the  characterization  had 
been  truthfully  followed.  The  actors  were  professionals 
who  had  been  well  drilled  in  their  parts  and  the  plot  de- 
veloped quickly  in  the  dialogue  between  Madeleine,  the 
erring  wife,  and  Aristide,  the  recreant  husband,  who  had 
fled  from  fashionable  Paris,  met  upon  the  road  and  joined 
this  troupe  of  Caravaners  that  they  might  taste  life  to- 
gether in  rural  simplicity  and  security.  The  dialogue 
was  clever,  if  decadent,  the  situations  amusing,  the  action 
rapid,  the  first  act  ending  with  the  appearance  of  the 
irate  wife  of  Aristide,  and  the  disappearance  of  the  guilty 
couple,  just  in  time  to  avoid  discovery. 

During  the  entr'acte,  though  the  restless  guests  moved 
about,  Hermia  sat  rooted  to  her  chair,  fascinated  with 
horror.  Her  body  seemed  nerveless  and  she  feared  that 
if  she  rose  her  limbs  would  not  support  her,  or,  if  they 
did  support  her,  she  must  fly  like  a  mad  thing  from 
the  house.  And  so  she  sat,  a  fixed  smile  frozen  on  her 
lips,  greeting  those  who  approached  her.  Beatrice  Cod- 
dington  left  her  seat,  and  Trewy  Morehouse  made  haste 
to  fill  it.  He  had  never  seemed  so  welcome  to  Hermia  as 
at  the  present  moment,  and  his  patient  mien  and  quiet 
commonplaces  did  much  to  restore  her  composure;  so 

302 


MRS.    HAMMOND   ENTERTAINS 

that  when  the  bell  rang  for  the  curtain  of  the  second  act, 
she  was  laughing  with  a  brave  show  of  enjoyment  at 
Reggie  and  Phyllis,  who  seemed  at  the  point  of  severing 
their  amatory  relations.  Hermia  was  prepared  for  any- 
thing now.  If  her  breach  of  conventions  had  found  her 
out,  there  was  no  one,  not  even  Olga,  who  would  look  at 
her  and  say  that  she  was  showing  the  white  feather. 

She  could  see  the  play  to  its  end  now,  for  from 
Reggie's  program  she  had  learned  that  the  setting  for  the 
second  act  was  the  interior  of  a  shooting  lodge  in  the 
forest,  and  when  the  curtain  rose  she  was  not  surprised  at 
the  setting  of  the  stage,  which  represented,  as  accurately 
as  possible,  the  house  of  the  Comte  de  Cahors,  in  the 
forest  of  Ecouves.  The  approach  of  the  injured  wife, 
discovered  in  time  by  the  refugees  through  the  half-opened 
shutter,  gives  Aristide  time  to  help  the  fictitious  orchestra 
lady  up  a  stair  to  the  garret,  where  she  is  in  concealment 
during  the  dramatic  interview  between  husband  and  wife, 
which  ends  in  the  woman  seizing  a  loaded  rifle  with  the 
intention  of  killing  both  herself  and  her  husband.  In 
the  struggle  which  ensues  for  the  possession  of  the 
weapon,  the  gun  is  discharged,  there  is  a  cry  overhead  and 
the  figure  of  Madeleine  is  seen  to  rise,  opening  the  trap- 
door, and  then  to  fall  the  length  of  the  stairs,  at  the  feet 
of  the  woman  who  has  been  wronged. 

The  scene  was  admirably  done  and  carried  the  audi- 
ence to  its  conclusion  in  breathless  silence.  The  lights  of 
the  ball-room,  fortunately  lowered,  had  hidden  the  pallor 
of  Hermia's  face  but  she  realized,  when  they  suddenly 
blazed,  that  Trevvy  Morehouse  was  looking  at  her  curi- 
ously, that  her  fingers  were  ice-cold  and  that,  when  she 
spoke  a  word  or  two  in  reply  to  his  anxious  query,  her 
voice  was  strangely  unfamiliar.  As  the  applause  ceased, 

303 


MADCAP 

there  was  a  general  movement  toward  the  supper-room. 
Hermia  rose  stiffly  and  moved  as  in  a  dream.  Was  it  her 
own  conscience  that  told  her  that  Carol  Gouverneur  was 
looking  at  her  strangely?  Or  that  there  was  meaning 
in  the  glance  and  laughter  of  Mrs.  Renshaw  and  Archie 
Westcott  as  she  passed  them?  She  tried  to  smile  care- 
lessly, but  her  muscles  would  not  obey  her.  Would  she 
never  reach  the  door?  People  stopped  and  spoke  but 
she  only  nodded  and  passed  on,  intent  upon  the  shadows 
of  the  hallway,  where  the  lights  glowed  dimly  and  the 
gaze  of  these  people  would  no  longer  burn  past  her  bar- 
riers, searching  out  the  innermost  recesses  of  her  heart, 
which  they  read  according  to  the  hideous  lie  which  Olga 
had  told.  A  comedy  with  a  sting,  she  had  called  it,  and 
the  sting  meant  for  Hermia,  had  poisoned  the  air  with 
its  venom.  She  leaned  heavily  on  Trewy's  arm  but  she 
did  not  hear  what  he  was  saying ;  and,  as  they  passed  the 
door  into  the  hall,  two  men,  neither  of  whom  she  knew, 
followed  her  pale  face  with  their  glances.  Was  it  her 
tortured  imagination  that  made  her  hear  one  of  them  say 
to  the  other  after  she  had  passed,  "That's  the  girl ?" 

What  girl?     Not  herself?     She  gasped  a  question  to 
Trewy.     He  smiled  gaily. 

"Yes — they  were  pointing  you  out.     Do  you  wonder 
that  I'm  proud?" 

Hermia  stopped  and  faced  him.     She  learned  in  that 
moment  that  the  thing  he  had  dreamed  was  impossible. 

"Please   order  Mrs.   Anstell's  machine  for   me,"   she 
said  quickly.     "I'm  going  at  once." 

"Are  you  ill?    Shall  I  go  with  you?" 

"No — I  want  to  go  alone — alone "  she  gasped. 

Vaguely  troubled,  he  followed  her  anxiously  to  the 
door  of  the  dressing-room,  but  did  her  bidding. 

304 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

THE   SEATS   OF   THE   MIGHTY 

THE  account  of  this  atrocity  did  not  reach  John 
Markham  for  some  weeks.  With  the  exception  of 
the  people  who  came  to  the  studio  and  the  few 
men  he  met  at  the  club  where  he  dined,  he  saw  little  of  so- 
ciety, and  troubled  himself  less  with  its  affairs.  His  life 
was  more  secluded,  and  his  work  more  exacting  than  ever, 
and  when  he  walked  out,  which  he  did  in  the  late  after- 
noons, he  choose  avenues  which  would  not  remind  him  of 
the  things  he  was  trying  to  forget.  He  had  given  up  hope 
of  Hermia,  and  though  her  vision  persisted,  it  was  not  of 
the  modish,  self-contained  creature  who  had  received  him 
so  coolly  that  he  thought.  This  was  not  the  Hermia  he 
had  loved.  That  other  girl,  the  joyous  companion  of  his 
summer  idyl,  was  no  more.  At  times  it  almost  seemed  that 
she  had  never  been.  She  had  made  it  clear  that  she  wished 
no  more  of  him  and  he  had  accepted  her  dictum  without 
question.  A  more  sophisticated  lover  would  have  laughed 
away  the  barriers  she  had  interposed,  followed  her  care- 
lessly, and  brought  her  to  bay  when  he  had  proved  or 
disproved  the  genuineness  of  her  indifference.  But  Mark- 
ham  was  singularly  ingenuous,  his  reasoning  as  simple  and 
direct  as  that  of  a  child.  He  had  never  understood  the 
woman  of  society  and  until  Olga  had  appeared  upon  his 
horizon  had  let  her  severely  alone.  Hermia  had  been  an 
accident — a  divine  accident.  Her  frankness  had  disarmed 

305 


MADCAP 

him,  and  he  had  followed  his  impulses  blindly,  as  (it 
seemed  to  him  then)  she  had  followed  hers.  He  gloried 
in  the  memory  of  their  pilgrimage,  its  gayety,  its  freedom 
and  the  clean  spirit  with  which  they  both  had  entered  on 
it.  He  had  believed  in  her  and  in  believing  had  let  his 
heart  carry  him  where  it  would,  willing  to  forget  that  she 
might  not  be  infallible.  He  had  been  so  sure  of  her — so 

sure — and  now 

He  wiped  his  brushes  on  a  square  of  cheesecloth, 
cleaned  his  palette  and  lay  in  his  chair  frowning  at  the 
portrait,  which  smiled  back  at  him  with  ironical  amuse- 
ment. It  was  curious.  All  his  portraits  now  smiled.  His 
reputation  was  based  on  his  skill  in  making  people  happy 
in  paint — painting  all  people  happy  but  himself — Ptmchi- 
nello  dancing  while  his  Columbine  lay  dead.  He  straight- 
ened with  a  quick  intake  of  the  breath,  then  washed  his 
brushes  carefully  and  changed  into  street  clothes.  He 
was  writing  to  one  of  his  sitters  when  his  knocker  clanged 
and  a  man  in  livery  entered  bearing  a  note.  He  opened 
it  and  read : 

MY  DEAR  MR.  MARKHAM: 

I  must  see  you  at  once  on  a  matter  of  importance.  Can 
you  come  up  this  afternoon  for  a  dish  of  tea?  I'm  sending 
my  car  for  you  in  the  hope  that  your  engagements  will  not 
forbid.  If  anything  prevents  to-day,  won't  you  lunch  with 
me  to-morrow  at  two? 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

SARAH  HAMMOND. 

Markham  frowned.  There  was  no  getting  out  of  it,  it 
seemed. 

"You  have  Mrs.  Hammond's  car  below?"  he  said  to  the 
waiting  footman. 

306 


THE  SEATS   OF   THE  MIGHTY 

"Yes,  sir.  I  was  to  get  an  answer  or  take  you  up,  if 
you  could  go." 

"I'll  go.    I'll  be  down  in  a  moment." 

The  man  retired,  and  Markham,  somewhat  mystified, 
reread  Mrs.  Hammond's  note  and  got  into  his  hat  and 
overcoat.  A  matter  of  importance !  Another  commission, 
perhaps — she  had  already  got  him  two.  And  yet  it 
seemed,  had  it  been  that,  she  would  have  expressed  herself 
differently. 

He  went  down  and  got  into  the  elegantly  appointed 
limousine  and  in  a  while,  too  short  to  solve  his  problem, 
was  set  down  under  the  porte  cochere  of  his  patrowne. 

He  found  her  at  the  tea  table,  a  stout  but  puissant 
figure  in  mauve  and  black.  In  the  studio  she  had  not 
bothered  him.  She  had  been  merely  an  amiable  million- 
aire, in  pearls  and  black  satin.  Here  in  the  majestic 
drawing-room,  with  her  small  court  gathered  about  her, 
she  dominated  him.  He  hesitated  a  second  at  the  door 
before  going  forward,  but  when  she  saw  him  she  rose  at 
once  and  excused  herself  to  her  guests.  After  their  de- 
parture, she  motioned  him  to  a  chair  beside  her  and  en- 
tered without  delay  upon  her  subject.  Her  manner  was 
kindly,  if  restrained,  and  he  saw  at  once  that  the  matter 
was  of  a  personal  nature. 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Markham,  you  think  it  rather  curi- 
ous that  I  should  have  sent  for  you  in  such  haste,  but  I 
shouldn't  have  done  so  had  I  not  thought  it  necessary. 
You  understand  that,  don't  you?" 

Markham  murmured  something  and  waited  for  her  to 
go  on. 

"It  seems  a  little  difficult  to  begin,  for  there  are  some 
matters  which  are  not  easy  even  with  a  friend." 

307 


MADCAP 

"I  am  sure  if  there  is  anything  in  which  I  can  help 

you " 

"There  is,  Mr.  Markham.  I  should  not  have  dared  to 
speak  to  you  if  I  hadn't,  unfortunately,  found  myself 
brought  into  an  affair  in  which  your  name  has  been  men- 
tioned." 

"My  name?" 

"Yes.    Yours  and  Miss  Challoner's." 

He  blanched  and  was  immediately  conscious  that  her 
small  eyes  were  watching  him  keenly. 

"Wh — what  have  you  heard,  Mrs.  Hammond?"  he 
blurted  out. 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Markham.  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  that  I  am  the  kind  of  woman  who  seeks  to  pry  into 
the  affairs  of  other  people.  I  don't.  I  abominate  med- 
dlers and  will  have  nothing  to  say,  even  if  after  I  tell  you 
what  my  motives  are,  you  refuse  to  answer  my  questions. 
But  a  great  wrong  has  been  done,  an  advantage  taken  of 
my  hospitality.  I  speak  of  the  theatricals  which  took 
place  at  my  house  in  the  country  last  month." 

He  stared  at  her  blankly  and  she  smiled. 

"I  forgot,"  she  went  on,  "what  a  hermit  you  are.  Of 
course  you  have  not  heard."  She  leaned  over  the  tea  table 
and  took  a  slip  of  paper  from  under  a  tea  dish.  "I  shall 
let  you  read  this  so  that  you  may  know  in  just  what  terms 
New  York  is  speaking  of  you — of  me — of  us." 

She  handed  him  the  clipping.  It  was  from  a  weekly 
paper,  which  concerned  itself  with  the  doings  of  society, 
and  he  read,  his  eyes  glowing: 

The  much  heralded  theatricals  at  "Roods  Knoll"  have 
come  and  gone,  but  the  echoes  of  this  affair  are  still  rever- 
berating the  length  of  the  Avenue.  It  seems  that  the  very 

308 


THE  SEATS   OF   THE   MIGHTY 

clever  play,  written  by  a  well-known  woman  of  society,  was 
based  upon  fact,  and  that  the  hero  and  heroine  of  the  adven- 
tures depicted  are  in  New  York,  the  girl  in  question  a  member 
of  the  hunting  set  and  the  man  a  distinguished  portrait 
painter — both  of  whom  shall  be  nameless.  As  everyone 
( knows,  the  play  is  laid  in  rural  France,  and  deals  with  the 
loves  of  a  French  countess  who  has  fled  from  her  husband  to 
join  her  lover,  also  married,  upon  the  road,  where  they  become 
members  of  a  band  of  strolling  mountebanks,  the  lady  mas- 
querading as  a  Dame  Orchestre  and  the  gentleman  as  an  itin- 
erant painter  of  portraits 

Markham  stopped,  his  eyes  seeking  those  of  his 
hostess. 

"The  play  was  given,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "at  your 
house  ?" 

"It  was,  Mr.  Markham,"  she  said  simply.  "Read  it 
through  to  the  end,  please." 

He  did  so,  his  horror  increasing  as  the  full  signifi- 
cance of  the  description  grew  upon  him.  Hermia  had 
seen — had  read  this.  They  were  talking  about  her  and 
about  him  ?  He  could  not  understand. 

"You  said  that  Miss — Miss  Challoner's  name  had  been 
mentioned — and  mine,"  he  said  slowly.  "There  is  no 
name — mentioned  here.  The  identity  of  the  people " 

"Your  names  have  been  mentioned,  Mr.  Markham,  In 
my  presence.  The  story  back  of  this  vile  clipping  is  on 
the  lips  of  every  gossip  in  town.  Where  it  originated 
Heaven  only  knows,  but  facts  are  given  and  dates  which 
make  it  ugly  in  the  extreme.  I  thought  it  best  that  you 
should  know  and  sent  for  you  to  assure  you  that  I  had 
no  knowledge  about  the  play  and  its  possible  reference  to 


any  one." 


309 


MADCAP 

"The  play,"  he  asked  quietly,  "was  written  by 
Madame  Tcherny?" 

She  nodded,  her  eyes  regarding  him  soberly. 

"What  shall  I  do,  Mr.  Markham?  If  there  is  some 
basis  of  truth  in  the  reports  I  hear,  I  have  been  grossly 
imposed  upon  and,  whatever  the  facts,  have  done  a  great 
wrong  both  to  you  and  Hermia.  Unfortunately,  she  has 
left  New  York,  and  I  don't  know  where  to  find  her.  She 
left  town,  I  am  informed,  the  day  after  the  play  was 
given.  I  wish  she  hadn't.  It  makes  things  awkward  for 
me.  I  have  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  but  if  she 
ties  my  hands  by  silence  what  can  I  do?" 

Markham  had  risen  and  was  pacing  the  floor  slowly, 
his  head  bent,  all  his  thoughts  of  Hermia.  Olga's  cruelty 
stunned  him.  She  had  promised  not  to  speak.  Had  she 
spoken  other  than  in  this  ingenious  drama?  Or  was  it — 
De  Folligny?  His  fists  clenched  and  his  jaws  worked 
forward.  De  Folligny — a  man.  Here  was  something 
tangible — a  man,  not  a  woman,  to  deal  with.  He  turned 
and  stood  beside  the  tea  table,  struggling  for  the  control 
of  his  voice. 

"Who  has  told  this  story,  Mrs.  Hammond?"  he  asked 
at  last. 

She  shrugged  her  capacious  shoulders  and  settled  her 
head  forward  in  his  direction. 

"Frankly,  I  don't  know.  Thank  God,  I'm  not  in  any 
way  responsible  for  that  part  of  this  misfortune.  I  only 
know  that  Olga  Tcherny  wrote  the  play.  As  to  her  mo- 
tives in  doing  so  I  am  at  a  loss.  But  if  I  thought  she 
used  my  house,  violated  my  hospitality  at  the  expense  of 
one  of  my  guests,  to  serve  some  private  end,  I  would " 

The  good  lady  grew  red  in  the  face,  and  then,  con- 
trolling herself  after  a  moment,  "I  would  find  some  means 

310 


THE   SEATS   OF   THE   MIGHTY 

i  •  • 

of  getting  her  the  punishment  she  deserved.  Hermia 
Challoner  was  there,"  she  went  on  quickly.  "Her  appear- 
ance was  remarked.  She  looked  ill  and  left  the  house  be- 
fore supper.  You  were  invited,  too,  Mr.  Markham,  if 
you  will  remember,  but  would  not  corne.  I  confess  I'm  at 
my  wit's  ends.  I  shall  not  question  you.  All  I  ask  is 
your  advice." 

Markham  raised  his  head  and  looked  her  in  the  eyes 
for  a  full  moment.  She  was  much  distressed  at  the  posi- 
tion, and  the  friendliness  of  her  look  was  all  that  could 
be  desired.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  weighing  his  duty 
with  his  inclination.  What  was  best  for  Hermia?  How 
could  he  serve  her?  How  build  a  bulwark  to  dyke  the 
flood  of  scandal  which  threatened  her  in  her  flight?  A 
lie?  Obviously  that  wouldn't  do,  for  Mrs.  Hammond  be- 
lieved in  him.  And  the  story  had  gone  too  far,  was  too 
diabolic  in  its  accuracy,  for  a  flat  denial  without  expla- 
nation. The  truth? 

His  hostess  still  regarded  him  patiently.  He  searched 
her  with  his  eyes,  his  gaze  finally  falling. 

"If  one  is  guiltless  one  does  not  fear  the  truth,"  he 
muttered  slowly,  "nor  does  virtue  fear  a  lie — but  a  half- 
truth  will  damn  even  the  innocent,  Mrs.  Hammond." 

"There  is  some  basis  then  for  the  stories  they  are  tell- 
ing?" she  asked  kindly. 

"My  lips  have  been  sealed.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  have 
the  right  to  open  them  now.  But  I  will.  I  don't  think 
I  could  pay  you  a  higher  compliment  than  by  trusting 
Miss  Challoner's  fate  entirely  into  your  hands." 

Mrs.  Hammond,  now  keenly  interested,  smiled  at  him 
encouragingly. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Markham,  I'm  not  so  old  that  I  have 
forgotten  how  to  be  human." 

311 


MADCAP  

He  glanced  around  the  room  and  lowered  his  voice. 

"You  know — Hermia — Miss  Challoner  very  well,  Mrs. 
Hammond  ?" 

"Since  her  infancy — a  creature  of  moods — willful, 
wayward,  if  you  like — but  the  soul  of  honor  and  virtue." 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"Thanks.  You  make  it  easier  for  me,"  he  said.  "I 
want  you  to  understand  first,  Mrs.  Hammond,  that  I 
alone  am  responsible  for  this  misfortune.  Miss  Challoner 
and  I  met  upon  the  highroad  in  Normandy,  entirely  by 
chance.  I  was  doing  the  country  afoot,  as  is  my  custom 
in  summer.  Her  machine  was  destroyed  in  an  accident. 
She  was  alone.  I  asked  her  to  go  with  me.  She  accepted 
my  invitation.  It  was  mad  of  me  to  ask  her,  mad  of  her 
to  accept — but  she  did  accept.  We  were  together  more 
than  a  week — traveling  afoot  by  day — sleeping  in  the 
open  when  the  weather  was  fine  and  indoors  when  I  could 
find  a  room  for  her.  I  had  moments  of  inquietude  at  my 
responsibility,  for  I  had  done  wrong  in  letting  her  go  with 
me.  She  was  a  child  and  trusted  me.  I  began  by  being 

amused.  I  ended  by Good  God!  Mrs.  Hammond,  I 

loved — I  worshiped  her.  I  couldn't  have  harmed  her. 
She  was  sacred  to  me — and  is  now.  You  must  understand 
that." 

His  hostess's  expression,  which  had  grown  grave  dur- 
ing this  recital,  relaxed  a  little. 

"I  think  I  understand,  Mr.  Markham.  I  am  keenly 
interested.  Where  does  Olga  Tcherny  come  in?" 

Her  question  bothered  him.  He  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  went  on,  deliberately  postponing  a  reply. 

"Our  relations  were  clearly  established  from  the  first. 
We  had  met  before,  you  know,  earlier  in  the  summer,  and 
I  had  visited  at  Westport.  She  liked  and  understood  me, 

312 


THE  SEATS   OF   THE   MIGHTY 

and  was  sensible  enough  to  tell  me  so;  and  I — she  at- 
tracted me — curiously.  I  had  always  lived  a  solitary  sort 
of  existence.  She  simply  ignored  my  prejudices  and  over- 
rode them.  She  invaded  my  life  and  took  it  by  storm. 
She  was  like  the  sudden  capriccioso  after  the  largo  in  a 
symphony.  She  was  Youth  and  Joy,  and  she  got  into  my 
blood  like  an  elixir.  I  loved  her  for  all  the  things  she 
was  that  I  was  not,  but  I  did  not  tell  her  so — not  then. 
I  hid  my  secret,  for  I  knew  that  if  she  guessed  it  would 
make  a  difference  to  us  both."  He  raised  his  head  and 
went  on  more  rapidly.  "We  joined  a  company  of  stroll- 
ing mountebanks.  Oh,  that  was  true  enough — and  went 
with  them  as  far  as  Alen9on.  Hermia — Miss  Challoner 
— was  a  Dame  Orchestre  and  I  a  'lightning'  artist.  We 
made  our  living  in  that  way.  It  was  quite  wonderful  how 
she  played — wonderful  how  she  forgot  what  she  was — 
how  she  became  what  I  wanted  her  to  be — an  earthling 
among  earthlings.  With  them  she  lived  in  poverty  and 
discomfort,  learned  the  meaning  of  weariness  and  felt  the 
pinch  of  hunger."  He  smiled.  "I  suppose  you  wonder 
why  I'm  telling  you  all  this,  Mrs.  Hammond.  I  wanted 
you  to  understand  just  what  the  pilgrimage  was — how 
little  it  had  in  common  with — with  what  you  have  heard 
these  people  saying." 

"I  know,  Mr.  Markham.  I  understand,"  she  said 
gently.  Her  eyes  softened  and  she  looked  past  him  as 
though  back  through  a  vista  of  the  years.  "It  was  Ro- 
mance— the  true  Romance,"  she  murmured.  "She  bor- 
rowed a  week  from  Immortality — that,  for  once,  she  might 
be  herself.  She  was  free — from  this  thralldom — free !" 

"She  worked — hard,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment, 
"and  she  earned  what  money  she  made.  And  so  did  I. 
But  I  was  bothered.  My  sins  were  pursuing  me.  One 

313 


MADCAP 

day  we  saw  upon  the  road  a  man  Miss  Challoner  had  met, 
and  at  Alen^on " 

"Olga  Tcherny?"  asked  Mrs.  Hammond  keenly. 

Markham  paused,  looked  beyond  her  and  went  on. 

"And  at  Alenfon,  when  we  were  giving  a  performance, 
some  one  I  knew  appeared  and  recognized  me.  Need  I 
mention  names?" 

"Not  if  you  prefer  to  be  silent.  And  the  hunting 
lodge?" 

"We  fled  from  Alen9on  that  night  and  took  refuge 
from  the  rain  in  a  house  in  the  forest.  Miss  Challoner 
was  dead  tired.  We  had  been  up  since  sunrise.  So  we 
stayed  there,  thinking  ourselves  safe.  But  in  the  morn- 
ing  "  He  paused. 

Mrs.  Hammond  had  risen  and  was  fingering  the  flow- 
ers on  the  tea  table. 

"In  the  morning,"  she  finished  dryly,  "Olga  Tcherny 
found  you  there.  I  understand." 

He  rose  and  faced  her  uncomprehendingly.  "Mrs. 
Hammond,  do  you  mean  that  you  believe — as  she  did?" 

She  turned  quickly  and  thrust  forth  both  of  her 
plump  jeweled  hands,  and  he  saw  that  her  friendliness 
was  in  no  way  diminished. 

"I'm  not  one  to  believe  half-truths,  Mr.  Markham, 
when  I  hear  whole  ones,"  she  said,  smiling  rosily.  "If  you 
had  lied  to  me  I  should  have  known  it.  But  you  didn't 
and  I  believe  in  you." 

She  released  his  hand  and  made  him  sit  again. 

"I've  never  been  so  entertained  and  delighted  since — 
since  hundreds  of  years  ago,"  she  sighed.  "You  were 

mad — quite  mad,  both  of  you.  And  Hermia "  she 

stopped,  sat  quickly  upright,  and  while  he  watched  her, 
laughed  deliberately.  "Hermia  comes  back  to  New  York 

314 


THE   SEATS   OF   THE   MIGHTY 

and  engages  herself  to — to  Trevelyan  Morehouse !  The 
excellent  Trevelyan — after  Arcadia!  And  you?"  She 
read  his  face  like  an  open  book,  her  humor  dying  in  a 
gentle  smile. 

"It  doesn't  matter  about  me,  Mrs.  Hammond,"  he 
said  quietly. 

"But  I  think  it  does,"  she  insisted.  "Do  you  mean 
that  you  can't  understand?" 

"Understand  what,  Mrs.  Hammond?" 

"How  that  poor  child  has  suffered.  Do  you  mean 
that  you  don't  know  why  it  is  that  she  has  ignored  you 
and  fled  to  Trevelyan  Morehouse?" 

He  made  no  reply. 

"Then  I  can't  help  you.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
world  denser  than  a  lover.  The  object  of  his  affections 
is  large  in  his  eyes,  so  large  that  the  focus  is  blurred. 
He  can't  see  her — that's  all.  Hermia  was  terror-stricken 
and  you  were  not  aware  of  it.  She  knew  that  she  was 
clean  and  that  you  were,  and  the  dirt  that  threatened  her 
threatened  her  idyl,  too." 

She  stopped  abruptly  and  looked  past  him. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  said  too  much,  Mr.  Markham.  That 
is  because  I  see  how  foolish  you  have  been — both  of  you 
in  this  affair.  It's  none  of  my  business." 

She  fingered  the  clipping  on  the  table  and  went  on 
vigorously. 

"As  to  this  infamous  story  that  they  are  telling,  I 
shall  find  means  to  stop  it.  How,  I  don't  know  just  yet. 
This  paper  shall  print  a  retraction.  I'll  manage  that. 
Olga  Tcherny " 

"I  beg  of  you " 

"Olga  Tcherny's  career  in  New  York  is  ended.  She 
shall  never  enter  my  house,  or  the  house  of  any  of  my 

315 


MADCAP 

friends.  That  play  was  a  lie,  written  with  a  motive.  She 
has  used  me  shamefully — shamefully — made  me  an  accom- 
plice, and  placed  me  in  the  undesirable  position  of  spon- 
sor for  her  villainies." 

She  rose,  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  upon 
the  Avenue,  her  lips  taking  firmer  lines  of  resolution. 
He  watched  her  in  silence,  and  when  she  spoke  her  tones 
were  short  and  decisive. 

"With  your  permission,  Mr.  Markham,"  she  said  at 
last,  "as  Hermia's  friend  and  yours,  I  shall  deny  this 
story  in  every  detail.  You  must  provide  me  with  an 
alibi." 

She  turned  back  into  the  room  and  faced  him. 

"You  were  not  in  Normandy  last  summer — that  is 
positive." 

He  smiled. 

"I  am  in  your  hands,"  he  said. 

"Where  were  you?" 

"In  Holland,  if  you  like.    I've  tramped  there." 

"And  Hermia?" 

"In  Switzerland.  She  went  there  after  leaving  me. 
There  was  a  party.  Morehouse  was  with  her.  It's  easily 
proved." 

"Good.  We  must  lose  that  week  somewhere.  It  must 
be  wiped  from  the  calendar.  If  Hermia  only  hadn't  run 
away !" 

"Mrs.  Westfield  is  still  here,  I  believe,"  he  ventured. 

She  deliberated  a  moment. 

"Excellent.  I  shall  see  her  at  once.  Together  we 
will  manage  it.  You  are  to  leave  things  to  me.  I'm  not 
without  influence  here  in  New  York,  Mr.  Markham.  We 
shall  see.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  avoid  seeing  Olga  or  tak- 
ing the  matter  into  your  own  hands.  That  would  only 

316 


make  a  noise — an  unpleasant  noise.  Will  you  promise 
me?" 

He  was  silent.    She  examined  him  curiously. 

"You  think  you  know  who  told  this  story?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"You  think  it  was  not  Olga?" 

"Yes.  She  gave  me  her  word  she  would  say  nothing. 
I  believed  her." 

"Was  it "  she  paused. 

"The  man  we  met  upon  the  road  in  Normandy  was 
Monsieur  de  Folligny,  Mrs.  Hammond." 

"Oh!  I  see."  She  fingered  the  sugar  tongs  a  moment. 
"And  you  want  to  question  him?"  she  asked  then. 

"Er — I  would  like  to  find  out  if  it  was  he  who  told." 

"And  then  thrash  him?  You  want  the  papers  full  of 
the  whole  affair,  with  portraits  of  the  principals,  and  a 
description  of  your  romantic " 

"God  forbid!" 

"How  like  a  man!  To  get  a  girl  talked  about  and 
then  of  course  to  want  to  thrash  somebody!  I've  no  pa- 
tience with  you.  You  must  promise  to  behave  yourself  or 
I'll  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair." 

He  smiled  down  at  his  clasped  hands.  "I  suppose  you 
are  right,"  he  muttered. 

"Right!  Of  course  I  am.  This  is  a  case  which  will 
require  the  most  careful  handling — a  case  for  the  subtlest 
diplomacy.  If  I  am  going  to  risk  my  reputation  for 
veracity — and  jeopardize  my  hopes  of  Heaven  by  the  fibs 
that  I  must  tell  in  your  behalf,  I  don't  propose  to  have 
my  efforts  spoiled  by  senseless  bungling.  Will  you  give 
me  your  promise  ?" 

He  shrugged.  "I  suppose  there  is  nothing  left  for 
me  to  do." 

317 


MADCAP 


She  leaned  forward  toward  the  tea  table  with  a  laugh. 

"I'm  so  glad  that  you  are  sensible.  Now  we  shall  have 
our  tea.  I  owe  you  apologies.  My  business  seemed  more 
urgent  than  my  hospitality." 

They  sat  and  chatted  for  a  while,  Markham  sipping  his 
tea  and  wondering  why  he  was  imparting  to  this  stout  and 
very  amiable  old  lady  all  his  life's  secrets.  A  half  hour 
later,  when  he  rose  to  go,  he  realized  that  he  had  told  her 
all  about  his  week  in  Vagabondia,  including  its  sudden 
termination.  She  surprised  him  at  intervals  by  the  sym- 
pathy of  her  appreciation,  and  at  others  equally  serious 
by  an  unseemly  mirth  or  an  impatience  which  they  had 
not  merited.  But  when  he  got  up  to  go  she  followed  him 
to  the  door  and  gave  him  both  of  her  hands  again. 

"I  like  you,  John  Markham.  You're  quaint — a  relic 
of  a  less  flippant  age.  I'm  sorry  you  won't  accept  any 
of  my  invitations — but  I'll  forgive  you,  if  you'll  promise 
to  do  as  I  bid  you." 

"I'm  deeply  grateful  to  you,  Mrs.  Hammond.  Of 
course,  I  shall  be  obedient.  I  will  do  whatever  you  ask  of 
me." 

She  released  him  and  gave  him  a  gentle  push  toward 
the  door. 

"Then  go — and  find  Hermia !" 

"I,  Mrs.  Hammond?" 

"Yes,  you.    At  once." 

"But " 

"And  when  you  find  her — marry  her,  do  you  hear  ?  It's 
the  happiest  issue  out  of  your  afflictions."  She  laughed 
again,  rather  mischievously.  "You  know,  I  think  you  owe 
her  that!" 

"I She— you " 

318 


THE   SEATS   OF   THE   MIGHTY 

"She  is  waiting  for  you — somewhere.  Find  her: 
Leave  the  rest  to  me.  Now  go." 

He  halted  again — incredulous,  but  she  waved  him  past 
the  door  where  a  man  appeared  to  help  him  into  his  coat. 
And  so  he  bowed  his  thanks  and  went  out  into  the  dusk  of 
the  Avenue,  his  brain  teeming  with  nebulous  inconsis- 
tencies. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

THE   BRASS    BELL 

HERMIA,  waiting  for  him !  What  did  Mrs.  Ham- 
mond mean?  Was  the  woman  mad?  Hermia 
had  fled  from  New  York,  her  proud  little  head 
bent  before  this  cruel  story  which,  of  course,  had  gathered 
impetus  in  the  telling  and  now  indicted  her  of  sins  un- 
written in  the  fair  page  of  her  experience.  Poor  child! 
She  had  suffered — and  he,  fool  that  he  was,  had  sat  in  his 
studio,  the  victim  of  his  false  pride,  wrapped  in  his  own 
ego  while  this  vile  plot  was  brewing.  He  might  have  done 
something  if  he  had  had  his  wits  about  him,  instead  of 
hiding  his  head  like  an  ostrich  and  imagining  himself  un- 
seen. Olga — he  did  not  dare  to  think  of  Olga  Tcherny  or 
of  De  Folligny.  He  had  given  his  word  to  Mrs.  Hammond 
to  leave  the  entire  matter  in  her  hands.  Even  while  she 
had  given  him  her  word  not  to  speak  she  had  been  plan- 
ning this  refined  vengeance,  probably  knew  that  Pierre  de 
Folligny  had  already  made  a  good  story  of  their  adven- 
ture for  some  of  his  new  intimates  at  the  Club.  He  would 
have  a  reckoning  with  her — some  day — and  with  De  Fol- 
ligny! His  fingers  tightened  on  his  stick,  and  an  angry 
tide  warmed  his  face  and  temples.  Had  he  met  them, 
there  upon  the  Avenue  at  that  moment,  all  his  promises  to 
Mrs.  Hammond  must  have  been  forgotten — and  he  would 
have  made  short  work  of  that  unspeakable  gentleman.  Of 
Olga  Tcherny  he  thought  with  hardly  less  rancor.  At 


THE  BRASS  BELL 


one  time — a  year  ago  now — Olga  had  loomed  large  upon 
his  horizon.  Now  in  the  light  of  his  present  knowledge 
of  her  he  wondered  how  he  could  have  ever  thought  of  her 
friendship  seriously. 

She  belonged  in  an  atmosphere  too  sophisticated  for 
his  simple  rustic  soul.  She  had  always  lied  to  him;  her 
friendship  was  a  lie;  her  love,  too — a  lie.  That  declara- 
tion— Good  God! — and  he  had  been  actually  at  the  point 
of  being  sorry  for  her.  He  had  nothing  to  regret  now 
with  regard  to  Olga  Tcherny.  She  had  wiped  the  slate 
clean,  and  made  a  new  account  at  poor  Hermia's  expense. 

Hermia  in  exile — and  suffering !  Her  innocence  could 
not  make  her  heart  pangs  any  the  less  real.  Like  a  child 
she  had  followed  the  line  of  least  resistance,  and  seeking 
freedom  from  the  trammels  of  convention  had  obeyed  her 
impulses  blindly.  It  was  such  a  trivial  transgression  to 
find  so  crushing  a  retribution.  And  he,  Markham,  walked 
the  streets  of  New  York  the  envied  hero  of  an 
"amourette."  This  was  the  law,  which  says  that  women 
may  sin  if  they  are  not  found  out  and  that  men  may  sin 
when  they  please. 

Poor  little  penitent,  atoning  for  sins  uncommitted! 
All  his  heart  went  out  to  her,  and  his  memory,  passing 
the  forbidding  vision  of  her  last  appearance,  now  pictured 
the  real  Hermia  that  he  knew,  a  brave,  buoyant  Hermia, 
who  knew  nothing  of  discouragements  and  greeted  the 
sunrise  with  a  smile,  her  head  now  bowed  and,  like  Niobe, 
"all  tears." 

Was  she  waiting  for  him?  If  so,  why  had  she  not 
written?  A  line,  and  he  would  have  sped  to  her.  She 
knew  that.  She  must  have  known  it  when  she  had  fled. 
Where  was  she  now?  At  Westport,  perhaps?  In  the 
South  somewhere,  alone  with  her  maid,  avoiding  the  news- 

321 


MADCAP 

papers,  seeking  the  company  of  strangers  that  her  ears 
might  not  hear  or  her  eyes  see  the  record  of  her  trans- 
gression? Had  she  gone  abroad  again?  Who  would 
know?  He  might  inquire  of  Phyllis  Van  Vorst  or  Caroline 
Anstell  over  the  telephone.  But  when  he  reached  his  rooms 
and  had  taken  up  the  receiver  he  saw  that  even  this  in- 
formation was  denied  to  him.  Any  manifest  interest  or 
anxiety  on  his  part  with  regard  to  Hermia  would  be  re- 
garded with  suspicion.  Nor  was  he  any  more  positive 
than  before  that  his  quest  would  meet  with  the  approval  of 
its  object.  He  was  powerless.  There  was  nothing  for  him 
but  to  wait. 

The  thought  of  going  to  his  club  to  dine  was  repellant 
to  him.  The  story  that  Mrs.  Hammond  had  let  him  read 
was  now  common  property  and.  though  none  of  his  ac- 
quaintances would  have  had  the  bad  taste  to  mention  his 
connection  with  it,  his  appearance  among  them  must 
revive  its  disagreeable  details,  at  Hermia's  expense.  So 
for  some  days  he  dined  alone  at  an  obscure  restaurant, 
glooming  over  the  evening  paper  and  wondering  what 
could  be  done.  Night  after  night  he  walked  the  street  un- 
til, at  last,  wearied  and  no  nearer  the  solution  of  his 
problem,  he  went  home  and  to  bed,  to  toss  restlessly  most 
of  the  night  and  plan  impossibilities.  Through  his 
thoughts,  the  friendship  of  Mrs.  Berkeley  Hammond  hov- 
ered comfortingly.  She  was  not  a  woman  to  promise  idly. 
She  had  been  interested  in  his  story  and  felt  herself  mor- 
ally bound  to  make  some  sort  of  restitution  to  Hermia 
for  her  own  unwilling  responsibility  in  the  attention  that 
had  been  drawn  to  it.  He  did  not  doubt  that  she  would 
use  all  her  influence  to  minimize  the  effect  of  Olga's  machi- 
nations, and  he  felt  sure  with  such  a  friend  at  court  that 
Hermia  need  have  little  to  fear  from  the  opinions  of  Mrs. 

322 


THE  VRASS  BELL 


Hammond's  friends  and  her  own,  and  these  after  all  were 
the  only  opinions  that  mattered  to  her. 

An  early  morning,  a  few  days  after  the  interview  with 
Mrs.  Hammond,  found  Markham  at  his  studio,  somber  and 
dark  eyed,  regarding  his  latest  work  with  a  savage  eye  of 
disapproval.  He  didn't  feel  like  working,  and  by  a  piece 
of  good  fortune  his  time  was  free  for  him  to  do  what  he 
chose.  He  would  have  liked  above  all  things  to  have  em- 
ployed it  in  a  visit  to  the  house  of  Olga  Tcherny  and 
thence  with  dispatch  to  the  hotel  of  Monsieur  de  Folligny, 
where  what  remained  of  his  wrath  could  be  honestly  ex- 
pended in  a  manner  befitting  the  occasion.  This  occupa- 
tion being  denied  him,  there  was  nothing  left  but  to  take 
what  pleasure  he  could  from  the  mental  picture  that  he 
made  of  it. 

At  last  he  rose  and  groped  for  his  tobacco.  A  pre- 
cious lot  of  good  that  would  do  him !  It  would  have  been 
a  pity,  too,  because  murder,  even  such  justifiable  murder, 
had  not  yet  received  the  sanction  of  society  as  repre- 
sented in  the  New  York  Department  of  Police.  He  paced 
the  floor  restlessly  and  brought  up  before  his  desk,  where 
the  janitor  of  the  building  had  a  few  moments  ago  laid 
the  morning  mail.  He  took  it  up  idly — and  glanced  over 
it — a  note  or  two  in  the  fashionable  feminine  scrawl  about 
sittings,  a  letter  from  a  framemaker,  one  from  his  Paris 
agent,  and  the  usual  litter  of  circulars.  He  took  them  up 
one  by  one,  opened  them,  put  some  of  them  aside  and  con- 
signed others  to  the  paper  basket.  A  small  package  lay 
at  the  bottom  of  the  pile,  an  unobtrusive  package  neatly 
tied  with  string — evidently  an  advertisement  of  some  sort 
— of  a  paint  or  of  a  canvas.  He  was  about  to  drop  it 
with  the  others  when  he  was  made  aware  that  as  he  turned 
the  small  parcel  over  it  emitted  a  tinkle  as  of  two  metal 

883 


MADCAP 

objects  striking  together.  He  turned  it  again  and  ex- 
amined the  address  and  stamp.  His  name  was  printed  in 
ink  as  though  with  a  bad  pen  and  the  stamp  was  French. 
Now  really  curious  as  to  its  contents  and  aware  of  its 
individuality,  he  cut  the  string  and  opened  it.  There  was 
an  inner  wrapping  of  tissue  paper  containing  a  small 
white  pasteboard  box  which  bore  the  name  of  a  fashion- 
able New  York  jeweler,  and  inside  the  box  the  origin  of 
the  tinkle  was  revealed  in  a  small  brass  bell. 

He  took  the  object  out,  his  wonder  growing,  and  held 
it  suspended  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger.  A  brass 
bell  no  larger  than  his  thumbnail,  a  tarnished  little  trinket, 
no  longer  new,  which  tinkled  merrily  under  his  astonished 
gaze.  He  examined  the  thing  more  carefully,  his  bewilder- 
ment increasing,  noting  the  curious  construction,  which 
was  unlike  that  of  the  toy  bells  which  had  adorned  the 
necks  of  the  woolly  beasts  abroad  at  Christmas-time.  It 
was  heavy  for  its  size,  and  when  he  moved  it  had  a  de- 
cisive and  very  mellow  note.  Who  would  send  him  a  thing 
like  this  and  why?  There  must  have  been  a  mistake.  He 
took  up  the  paper  wrapper  from  the  waste  basket  and  ex- 
amined it  with  renewed  interest. 

JOHN  MAEKHAM,  ESQUIRE, 

—  West th  Street, 

New  York  City. 

With  a  stamp  of  the  French  Republic  and  a  postmark  of 
— What  were  the  postmarks?  Paris.  Of  course.  And 
the  other?  VAL-E — ?  Valence?  Valence  was  in  the 
South  of  France  on  the  Rhone.  He  had  never  been  there. 
No.  That  wouldn't  do.  VAL-L-E— Vallecy ! 

A  brass  bell  from  Vallecy!     Still  he  did  not  under- 
324- 


THE   BRASS   BELL 


stand.  He  took  the  object  up  again  and  scrutinized  it, 
its  meaning  dawning  slowly.  Vallecy !  That  was  the  vil- 
lage where  he  and  Hermia  had  stayed  with  Mere  Guegou. 
There  was  the  garden  of  the  golden  roses  where — The  bell ! 
It  was  from  Hermia' s  head-dress — the  belled  cap  of  the 
Femme  Or  chest  re!  He  knew  it  now-  It  was  a  token. 
Hermia  had  sent  it — from  Vallecy.  A  token. 

In  high  excitement  he  examined  the  obscure  postmark 
again.  The  accent  on  the  E,  a  little  smudged,  but  quite 
legible.  Hermia  had  sent  the  bell  as  a  token  from  Vaga- 
bondia  which  meant  that  she  was  there  in  Pere  Guegou's 
garden,  whither  she  had  fled  when  her  own  world  had  re- 
nounced her.  She  was  waiting  for  him.  She  needed  him, 
and  took  this  means  of  showing  him  that  all  things  that 
had  happened  to  them  both  since  they  had  parted  in  the 
forest  at  Sees  were  to  be  forgotten — that  they  were  both 
to  take  life  up — from  Vallecy.  He  stood  a  moment  in  j  oy- 
ous  uncertainty,  his  glance  on  the  clock,  then,  quickly 
wrapping  the  memento  in  its  tissue  paper,  thrust  it  into 
his  coat  pocket  and  in  a  moment  was  striding  like  a  mad- 
man down  the  street.  At  his  apartment  he  rang  for  a 
taxicab,  thrust  a  few  things  into  a  suitcase,  wrote  a  note 
or  two  and  in  half  an  hour  was  on  his  way  to  the  bank 
and  then  to  the  steamship  wharf. 

He  had  no  definite  plans  except  that  he  must  take  the 
first  steamer  which  left  New  York  for  Europe.  A  brief 
glance  at  his  morning  paper  advised  him  of  two  sailings 
this  morning,  one  for  Havre  and  the  other  for  Cherbourg, 
and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  take  one  steamer  or  the 
other.  The  taxicab  crawled,  it  seemed,  and  on  the  way 
downtown  was  caught  in  a  block  of  traffic  which  delayed 
him  for  ten  minutes,  during  which  he  fumed  silently.  But 
he  reached  the  dock  with  scarcely  a  quarter  of  an  hour 

325 


to  spare,  and  after  a  difficulty  which  was  cleared  away, 
found  himself  upon  the  deck  of 'the  Kaiserin  Augusta,  a 
somewhat  flustered  individual,  with  many  loose  ends  dan- 
gling in  retrospect,  with  no  cabin  as  yet  assigned  to  him, 
sober  of  face  but  inexpressibly  happy. 

It  was  really  not  until  his  ship  was  well  out  at  sea  and 
the  voyage  fairly  begun  that  Markham  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  settle  down  comfortably  and  meditate  upon  the 
surprising  events  of  the  morning.  He  found  a  steamer 
chair  in  a  quiet  place  and  then  gave  himself  up  to  his 
thoughts.  He  took  the  tiny  object  from  his  breast 
pocket  and  turned  it  over  in  his  fingers.  Of  course  it  was 
Hermia's.  The  wonder  was  that  he  had  not  recognized 
it  at  a  first  glance.  This  bell  and  its  other  small  com- 
panions had  tinkled  their  way  into  his  heart  at  each  step 
she  had  taken  down  the  long  road  from  Evreux  to  Alen- 
9on — tinkled  merrily  at  Passy,  joyously  at  Vallecy,  dis- 
dainfully at  Verneuil,  and  contentedly  at  La  Mesle.  Alen- 
9on  had  made  them  tragic  so  they  had  been  packed  in  Her- 
mia's bundle  which  went  with  her  to  Sees  and  were  heard 
no  more,  except  in  a  faint  tinkle  of  protest  as  she  was 
put  aboard  the  train  for  Paris.  Wonderful  bells  they 
were,  tiny  chimes  that  had  rung  in  the  season  of  their 
joy  and  lingered  in  their  memory  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Tokens — Hermia  had  realized  it — symbols  of  her  great- 
est happiness  and  his,  with  life  reduced  to  the  simplest  ele- 
ments, in  which  there  had  been  no  place  for  the  extrava- 
gant commonplaces  of  the  other  life  which  they  both  had 
lived  and  endured.  Hermia  had  fled  to  Vallecy  to  the 
motherly  breast  of  Mere  Guegou,  and  there  perhaps  was 
weeping  out  her  troubles.  He  took  out  the  square  of 
paper  (he  had  clipped  it  with  his  penknife)  which  bore  the 
address  and  examined  it  again.  This  and  the  bell  were  all 

326 


THE   BRASS   BELL 


he  had  had  to  start  him  off  on  this  fateful  pilgrimage. 
But  they  were  enough.  She  could  not  have  written  him 
after  her  treatment  of  him  in  New  York.  She  had  thrown 
herself  upon  his  mercy,  given  her  message  ambiguity  that 
he  might  ignore  it  if  he  chose,  or  read,  as  she  had  hoped  he 
would,  the  message  of  her  heart,  across  the  distances.  It 
was  the  message  of  a  vagabond  like  himself,  as  definite  a 
message  as  the  gypsy  patter  an  which  shows  the  way  from 
one  camp  to  another.  His  patter  an  pointed  to  Vallecy, 
that  lovely  village  by  the  Arth  where  he  had  first  told 
Hermia  that  he  loved  her.  Beyond  Vallecy  had  come  mis- 
understanding, bitterness,  misfortune.  She  had  chosen 
that  spot  as  though  by  instinct.  She  wanted  him  to  re- 
member her  there  where  love  had  first  been  spoken.  Alone 
and  waiting  for  him  among  the  roses  of  Pere  Guegou 

He  started  up  from  his  chair  in  bewilderment,  staring 
blankly  at  the  sunlit  sea,  suddenly  mindful  of  the  fact 
that  in  the  hurry  of  getting  away  he  had  not  cabled  her. 
He  threw  his  rugs  aside  and  made  his  way  hastily  to  the 
office,  to  find  unluckily  that  the  wireless  had  gotten  out  of 
order,  and  that  it  might  be  several  hours  before  it  was  re- 
paired. He  strolled  on  deck  again,  thoughtful,  suddenly 
impressed  with  the  potency  of  the  charm  that  had  called 
him.  The  thought  of  replying  to  her  message  had  not  un- 
til this  moment  entered  his  head.  All  that  he  had  been 
able  to  think  of  was  that  he  must  get  to  her  at  once,  fol- 
low the  patteran  at  top  speed.  He  had  done  so  and  now 
unhappily  remembered  a  dozen  neglected  people  who  must 
wonder  at  his  extraordinary  disappearance.  But  he  only 
smiled  joyously.  He  had  another  engagement. 

He  took  up  his  walk  along  the  promenade  deck,  care- 
less of  the  enemies  he  had  made,  careless  of  the  friendships 

327 


MADCAP 

he  might  lose,  all  his  thoughts  of  the  small  vagabond  at 
Vallecy.  His  inability  to  communicate  with  her  by  wire- 
less set  him  thinking.  Wasn't  that,  too,  a  symbol?  If  he 
got  a  message  over  what  would  be  its  effect?  Would  she 
still  wait  for  him,  looking  forward  to  the  precious  hour 
of  their  meeting?  Or  would  her  mind  change  at  the  last 
moment  and  send  her  flying  from  him  again?  This  was 
more  like  Hermia,  the  real  Hermia  that  he  knew.  He 
feared  her  moods  still.  And  if  he  refused  to  cable  her 
would  her  patience  last  until  he  got  to  France?  He  cast 
his  memory  over  the  months  that  had  passed  in  New  York. 
He  guessed  how  much  she  had  suffered.  He  had  followed 
her  social  career  through  the  newspapers  and  he  knew 
now  that  she  had  gone  gaily  that  she  might  hide  her  ter- 
ror. She  was  tired — poor  child — tired  in  body  and  spirit, 
and  that  was  why  she  had  not  stayed  in  Paris  among  the 
fashionable  people  she  knew  there;  that  was  why  she  had 
fled  to  Vallecy,  where  at  least  she  might  be  at  peace,  un- 
reminded  by  those  of  her  own  social  sphere  of  the  villain- 
ous story  which  pursued  her.  There  at  Vallecy  she  sat 
remote,  with  her  own  innocence  for  company,  convalescent 
— amid  these  primitive  surroundings — from  the  sickness 
that  her  world  had  given  her.  She  would  wait  for  him  if 
she  wasn't  sure  that  he  would  come.  He  smiled.  He  would 
not  send  the  wireless.  Nor  would  he  wire  her  from  Cher- 
bourg. 

A  search  of  the  postmark  of  his  much-beloved  package 
revealed  the  date  "Av.  %2"  She  had  sent  her  token  on  the 
twenty-second  of  April  and  it  was  now  only  the  second  of 
May.  Ten  days  only  had  passed,  and  he  was  already  well 
on  his  way  to  her.  In  less  than  a  week  more  he  would  be 
in  Vallecy.  She  would  wait  for  him.  Markham,  as  will 
be  observed,  was  learning  something  about  women — about 

328 


one  woman  at  least,  the  only  woman  in  the  world  who 
mattered. 

The  voyage  seemed  interminable,  though  the  ship  was 
a  fast  one,  and  the  day's  run  (on  paper)  highly  satisfac- 
tory. He  knew  no  one  aboard  but  some  of  the  officers,  i 
with  whom  he  had  crossed  before,  and  he  was  thankful  , 
that  he  was  therefore  left  alone  with  his  thoughts,  which 
were  infinitely  more  pleasing  to  him  than  the  chatter  of 
the  salon  or  smoking-room.  He  read  novels,  or  tried  to, 
but  his  own  story  was  so  much  more  interesting,  so  much 
more  real  than  those  he  could  find  that  he  gave  them  up 
after  a  trial  or  two  and  lived  again  his  own  romance.  The 
time  to  take  it  up  again  where  he  had  left  it  off  came 
slowly,  but  at  last  the  Lizard  hove  into  sight  and  the  pas- 
sengers for  France  prepared  for  debarkation.  Morning 
of  the  next  day  found  Markham  in  the  express  to  Paris. 
Evreux  was  his  station,  and  from  there  to  Verneuil  was  a 
little  over  an  hour,  most  of  it  along  the  road  he  and  Her- 
mia  had  so  blithely  traveled.  The  road  from  Verneuil  to 
Vallecy — he  would  cover  it  afoot  if  there  were  no  vehicles 
to  be  begged,  borrowed  or  stolen. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 
DUO 

AT  some  distance  from  the  village  street  he  dismissed 
the  vehicle  which  had  brought  him  from  Verneuil, 
a  rickety  affair  drawn  by  an  emaciated  horse,  and 
suitcase  in  hand  strode  up  the  hill  toward  the  house  of 
Madame  Guegou,  the  garden  wall  of  which  was  visible  be- 
yond the  flowering  orchard.  The  air  was  laden  with 
odors,  sweet  with  the  smell  of  the  fruit  blossoms  and  early 
shrubs.  In  the  meadow  to  the  left  some  goats  were  graz- 
ing and,  as  he  passed,  the  wether  raised  his  head  and  ex- 
amined him  incuriously,  its  bell  clanking  solemnly.  The 
sun  was  already  beyond  the  profile  of  the  forest;  beyond 
the  sleepy  village  and  against  the  warm  sky  thin  threads 
of  purple  smoke  ascended  in  perpendicular  lines  and  then 
drifted  lazily  down  to  the  mist  of  the  valley  below.  Na- 
ture breathed  slowly,  deeply,  as  though  aware  that  its 
state  was  not  a  matter  of  days  or  even  of  years,  but  of 
an  eternity,  during  which  its  evolution  must  not  be 
hurried. 

After  the  turmoil  of  steamer  and  railroad  this  silence 
was  oppressive.  Minute  sounds  came  to  Markham  across 
the  distances,  the  bark  of  a  dog,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  a 
shutter  closing,  human  voices  near  and  far,  each  one  dis- 
tinct, but  each  mellowed  and  softened  as  though  strained 
through  a  silver  mesh.  He  missed  the  shudder  of  the 
steamer,  the  rattle  of  the  train,  the  jolting  even  of  the 

330 


DUO 

station  wagon  from  which  he  had  just  descended ;  for  they 
were  all  a  part  of  the  fever  of  his  voyage  made  in  such 
mad  haste,  sounds  which  had  soothed  and  given  him  pa- 
tience, their  very  turbulence  assuring  him  that  he  was  los- 
ing no  time  upon  the  way.  And  now  that  he  had  reached 
his  destination,  a  violent  reaction  had  set  in.  He  was  still 
moving  forward  toward  the  house  with  the  walled  garden, 
but  a  fear  obsessed  him  that  perhaps  after  all  there  had 
been  a  mistake.  What  if,  after  all,  Hermia  were  not  here? 
His  suitcase  gained  in  weight  and  he  perspired  gently. 
Why  hadn't  he  cabled  her  at  the  first  moment  of  his  de- 
cision to  sail  or  why  hadn't  he  relayed  his  wireless  across 
when  opportunity  had  offered?  All  his  hopes  seemed  to 
be  slipping  from  his  finger  ends.  Was  this  Vagabondia? 
It  seemed  different  somehow.  He  was  aware  of  his  neatly 
creased  trousers,  his  bowler  hat,  his  gloves,  and  the  leather 
bag  which  reeked  of  sophistication.  He  was  an  ana- 
chronism, or  Vallecy  was.  They  were  not  attune.  He 
and  Vallecy  clashed  discordantly. 

Timorously,  almost  upon  tiptoe,  he  reached  the  village 
street.  A  dog  emerged  from  a  field,  sniffed  at  the  crease 
of  his  trousers  suspiciously  and  growled.  At  this  mo- 
ment Markham  desired  anything  but  commotion,  so  he 
chirped  to  the  animal  and  strode  on,  his  head  bent,  his 
gaze  on  the  portal  of  the  ancien,  which,  as  he  noted,  was 
forbiddingly  closed.  He  paused  a  moment,  eyeing  the  cur 
which  stopped  when  he  stopped,  still  regarding  him  un- 
certainly. And  then  summoning  his  courage  he  went  to 
the  door  and  knocked.  This  noise,  which  sounded  faintly 
enough  to  Markham,  seemed  to  be  the  demonstration  of 
hostility  the  dog  was  waiting  for,  and  it  began  barking 
furiously,  snapping  almost  at  Markham's  immaculate 
heels,  a  signal  which  was  taken  up  immediatley,  near  and 

331 


MADCAP 

far,  by  every  cur  in  the  village.  Curious  heads  were  poked 
out  of  windows,  and  at  last  after  a  few  moments  his  door 
was  opened  just  wide  enough  for  the  head  of  his  former 
hostess  to  inspect  him. 

"Madame  Guegou,"  he  began  uncertainly  and  then 
,  paused. 

The  door  opened  a  trifle  wider. 

"It  is  I,"  she  remarked,  her  gaze  on  the  suitcase.  "I 
can  buy  nothing,  Monsieur." 

He  laughed  uneasily. 

"You  do  not  remember  me,  Madame?"  he  asked. 

She  relinquished  the  door-knob  and  emerged,  inspect- 
ing his  clothing. 

"You  are  from  Paris,  of  course.  Last  year  perhaps, 
you  came " 

"I  did — last  summer,  Madame.  I  am  Philidor — the 
artist." 

"You!  Monsieur!  You  Philidor!"  She  leaned  for- 
ward upon  the  step,  her  eyes  searching  his  face.  "Phili- 
dor was  not  such  as  you.  He  wore  a  beard  and 

She  suddenly  caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  turned  him 
toward  the  sunset.  "I  might  think — and  yet — 

"I  am  Philidor,"  he  repeated,  laughing.  "I  came  in 
search  of — of  Yvonne." 

"You — are  he!  It  is  true.  The  saints  be  praised!" 
She  threw  the  door  inside  open  and  called :  "Jules  !  Jules ! 
He  is  come.  Monsieur  Philidor  is  here !" 

The  ancien  limped  forward  from  the  inner  darkness, 
showing  his  gums. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  cried  triumphantly.  "Did  I  not  say 
that  he  would  return?" 

Markham  took  the  bony  fingers,  his  anxious  gaze 
going  past  them  toward  the  glow  of  the  kitchen. 

332 


DUO 

"And  Yvonne?"  he  asked  feverishly.    "She  is  within?" 
"She  is  here,  yes,  she  is  here — waiting  for  you." 
He  dropped  his  valise  and  strode  past  them  eagerly. 
A  pot  simmered  upon  the  fire,  the  table  gave  evidence  of  a 
recent  repast,  and  a  pile  of  dishes  nearby  stood  mutely 
in  evidence,  but  of  Hermia  there  was  no  sign. 

"Tiens!"  Madame  Guegou  was  muttering.     "She  was 

here  but  a  moment  ago.    In  the  garden,  perhaps " 

He  dashed  out  of  the  rear  door  and  down  the  graveled 
walk. 

"Hermia !"  he  called,  and  then  again,  "Hermia !" 
He  reached  the  arbor  just  in  time  to  see  her  speed 
across  the  lower  end  of  the  meadow  and  vanish  into  the 
trees.  Hatless  he  leaped  the  low  wall  and  followed,  joy 
giving  him  wings,  while  the  old  couple  wonderingly 
watched  from  the  doorway.  They  were  mad,  these  two. 
She  had  been  waiting  for  him  a  month  and  now — she  fled. 
Mad?  But  what  was  love  but  madness? 

Markham  sprang  into  the  cover  of  the  trees  where 
he  had  seen  her  disappear  and  followed  the  path  up  the 
hill  breathlessly.  She  would  escape  him  now,  even,  when 
she  had  sent  for  him  and  he  had  come  to  her !  She  could 
not  go  far.  The  cover  was  thin.  He  would  have  called 
again,  but  he  spared  his  breath,  for  he  knew  that  she 
would  not  reply.  He  reached  the  end  of  the  path  and 
scanned  the  hill  beyond.  She  could  not  have  gone  that 
way.  He  turned  and  plunged  among  the  pine  trees  to 
his  right  where  the  woods  were  thicker.  It  was  getting 
darker,  but  he  saw  her  white  skirt,  gray  in  the  shadows — 
saw  it — lost  it  and  found  it  again  in  the  deep  wood.  He 
sprang  forward  over  fallen  trees,  through  brambles,  over 
rocks,  down  the  slope  to  the  streamside  and  caught  her 
behind  a  tree  where  she  had  hidden  away  from  him. 

333 


MADCAP 

"Hennia!"  he  cried.  "Hermia,  you  witch!  What  a 
dance  you've  led  me!  But  I  have  you  now — I  have 
you " 

And  so  he  had — in  both  of  his  arms,  his  lips  seeking 
hers.  But  she  denied  him. 

"Did  you  think  you  could  escape  me — again?"  he 
laughed,  "when  I've  come  half  across  the  world  for  you?" 

"You — you  frightened  me,"  she  gasped. 

"How  did  I  frighten  you?" 

"I  did — didn't  expect  you " 

"You  sent  for  me?" 

"I — I  thought  you  would  have  cabled " 

He  laughed  joyously. 

"Cabled  the  hour  of  my  arrival,  and  found  you — 
missing!  I  know  you  now,  you  see.  I  took  no  chances. 
As  it  is,  you  tried  to  get  away " 

"I  didn't  get  far " 

"That  wasn't  your  fault.  You  tried.  Why  did  you 
run?" 

She  was  silent,  her  head  still  hidden.  He  repeated  the 
question. 

"I— I  don't  know." 

"Do  I  frighten  you  now?" 

"Not  so  much." 

He  held  her  more  closely  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  the 
crown  of  her  head,  which  was  the  only  object  offered. 

"I  know,"  he  whispered,  "because  you  had  given  me 
everything  except  yourself — and  you  knew  that  I  would 
take  that." 

"No,  no." 

"What,  then?" 

Silence. 

"I  had  feared "  she  paused. 

334 


DUO 

"What  had  you  feared?" 

"That  you  might  not  come.    You  didn't  reply " 

"This  is  my  reply." 

He  raised  her  lips  slowly  to  his  own  and  took  them. 
Her  eyes  were  closed  as  though  she  feared  to  open  them, 
and  show  him  the  dawn  of  her  womanhood.  But  in  a 
moment  her  figure  relaxed  in  his  arms  and  her  head  sank 
upon  his  shoulder  in  token  of  surrender. 

"Mad  little  Hermia !"  he  whispered. 

"Mad  no  longer,"  she  sighed. 

"You  must  prove  it.  I'll  not  let  you  go  until  I'm 
sure  you  won't  go  flying  from  me  again." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  let  me  go.  I  want  you  to  hold 
me  tight.  It  is — rest.  I'm  tired  of  going.  I  want  to 
stay — here." 

"You  love  me?" 

This  time  she  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  let  him  see 
that  what  she  said  was  true.  She  had  outgrown  her  ado- 
lescence— her  madness,  unless  it  could  be  called  madness 
to  love  as  she  did.  Her  eyes  were  deep  wells  of  mystery, 
in  which  he  saw,  as  from  the  distant  brink  above,  his  own 
image,  clear  amid  the  shadows.  There  were  signs  of 
trouble  in  them,  too,  as  though  she  had  thought  long 
and  distressfully,  but  greater  than  the  marks  of  pain  were 
the  sweeter  tokens  of  a  love  and  trust  unalterable. 

She  sank  upon  a  rock,  he  beside  her,  her  head  on  his 
breast.  The  dusk  fell  swiftly,  its  shadows  enfolding  them. 
He  kissed  her  again  and  again,  and  her  lips  trembled  upon 
his  as  she  murmured  the  words  so  long  unspoken. 

"Philidor,  I  love  you — I  love  you.  It  was  so  long — 
the  waiting." 

"You  needn't  have  waited,  dear,"  he  said  gently. 

"Oh,  don't  reproach  me !  I  can't  bear  it.  It  had  to 
335 


MADCAP 

be.  Olga — she  smirched  us — your  love  and  mine — 
made " 

He  stopped  her  lips  with  kisses,  smiling  inwardly  and 
thinking  of  the  wisdom  of  Mrs.  Hammond. 

"There  is  no  Olga — "  he  murmured,  "no  gossip  but 
the  whisper  of  the  stream  which  knows  the  truth." 

"Yes — the  truth.  That  is  all  that  matters,  isn't  it? 
But  that  play — shall  I  ever  forget  it?" 

"Sh — child.    You  must  forget.    A  lie  never  lives." 

"I  will  forget.  I  don't  care — now.  Let  them  say  what 
they  choose.  But  I  did  suffer,  Philidor." 

"And  I.    You  were  cruel,  dear." 

"I  had  to  be  cruel.     I  feared  that  you — that  I " 

She  paused  and  he  questioned  gravely. 

"I  feared  that  you,  too,  might  have  misjudged  me — 
there  in  the  woods  at  Sees — that  I  had  cheapened  myself 
to  you — that  I  had  been  unwomanly." 

"Hermia!" 

"I  don't  know  what  possessed  me  after  Olga  appeared. 
She  poisoned  the  very  air  with  doubt.  I  was  desperate. 
I  didn't  seem  to  care  what  happened.  I  don't  know  what 
I  wanted.  I  think  if  you  had  taken  me  then  and  held  me 
— as  you  do  now — held  me  close  to  you  and  had  not  let  me 
go,  as  you  did,  you  might  have  had  me  to  do  as  you  willed. 
But  you  relinquished  me " 

"I  had  to,  dear." 

"Yes,  I  understand  now.  I  couldn't  then.  I  wanted 
to  hurt  you — as  I  was  hurt.  Your  sanity  made  me  des- 
perate. I  couldn't  understand  why  you  should  be  so  sane 
while  I  was  not.  You  were  greater  than  I — and  though  I 
loved  you  for  it  (O  Philidor,  how  I  loved  you!)  I  meant 
that  you  should  pay  for  my  heart-throbs — that  you 
should  pay  for  Olga — for  everything." 

336 


DUO 

"I  have  paid." 

"Forgive  me.  I  suffered  doubly  in  knowing  that  you 
suffered.  I  fled  from  you  and  hid  my  heart  as  a  miser 
would  bury  his  treasure.  But  your  letters,  forwarded 
from  Paris,  followed  me.  O  Philidor!  I  did  not  read 
them — not  at  first.  I  saw  Olga  telling  that  story  at  the 
dinner  table  and  my  pride  revolted.  I  put  them  away — 
unopened,  and  kept  them  concealed — from  others,  from 
myself  and  tried  to  forget  them.  I  couldn't.  They  were 
you.  I  would  take  them  out  and  look  at  them.  I  slept 
with  them  under  my  pillow.  At  last  I  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  I  took  them  and  disappeared  for  a  whole  day 
from  the  rest  of  my  party.  I  read  them  alone  on  the 
summit  of  a  mountain."  She  broke  off  with  a  sigh.  "Ah, 
me !  If  you  had  come  to  me  there  you  would  not  need  to 
have  pleaded,  Philidor." 

"My  Hermia!" 

"You  were  with  me  that  day.     Didn't  you  know  it?" 

"I  was  with  you  every  day,  child." 

She  smiled  happily. 

"When  I  got  down  to  Evian  at  nightfall  they  were 
searching  for  me.  They  thought  that  I  had  fallen  and 
been  killed.  They  reproved  me.  I  was  calm  and  smiling, 
my  spirit  still  soaring  to  you  across  the  distances.  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  you  the  next  day." 

"Oh,  if  you  had— !". 

"In  the  morning,"  she  went  on,  "came  your  letter  tell- 
ing me  that  you  were  sailing  for  New  York.  It  wasn't 
like  the  other  letters.  You  were  reproachful  and  you 
were  going  away  from  me.  It  chilled  me  a  little — after 
the  day  before.  Olga's  face  interposed — again.  And  so 
I  let  you  go.  You  see  I'm  telling  you  everything." 

"Go  on,  dear." 

337 


MADCAP 

"I  got  no  more  of  your  letters  for  a  time — for  a  long 
time — " 

"I  wrote  you — " 

"Yes — from  New  York.  There  was  some  mistake.  I 
cidn't  get  those  letters  until  long  after — until  I  reached 
New  York — until  after  I  had  seen  you.  Meanwhile,  I 
feared — that  you  had  cooled — that  Olga  had  done  some- 
thing to  change  you — " 

"Not  that—" 

"I  feared  her.  I  knew  then  that  she  was  capable  of 
anything.  I  heard  that  she  was  again  in  New  York  and 
sensed  that  you  must  have  seen  her — " 

"I  did  see  her,"  he  put  in  grimly. 

"I  didn't  know  what  had  happened.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  ignore  her — to  ignore  you — to  forget  you  and 
to  make  you  forget,  if  I  could,  what  had  happened." 

"That  was  impossible." 

"I  knew  it,  but  I  tried.  O  my  dear,  if  you  had  known 
my  pains  at  making  you  suffer!  It  was  hard.  But  I 
clid  it.  When  you  came  to  the  house — " 

"Don't  speak  of  that,"  he  muttered.  "It  was  not 
Hennia  that  I  saw." 

"Not  this  Hermia.  It  was  a  girl  that  even  /  did  not 
know.  I  had  rehearsed  that  conversation  and  I  carried 
it  through  to  the  end." 

"The  end — of  all  things,  it  seemed." 

She  drew  more  closely  into  the  shelter  of  his  arms  and 
drew  his  lips  down  to  hers. 

"Yes — but  we  shall  make  a  new  beginning  .  .  .  And 
then,"  she  went  on,  after  a  moment,  "I  saw  Olga  and  cut 
her.  I  hadn't  meant  to — but  I  couldn't  help  it.  The 
sight  of  her  turned  me  to  ice.  And  Pierre  de  Folligny — " 
She  stopped  again,  her  brows  tangling.  "That  man !  He 

33'8 


DUO 

remembered  me.  He  presumed.  He  was  odious.  I  had 
the  butler  show  him  the  door.  I — I  wasn't  very  wise,  I 
think.  But  I  couldn't,  Philidor, — I  simply  couldn't  tem- 
porize with  a  man  of  his  caliber." 

"D — n  him !"  said  Markham. 

"He  told— I  think— or  Olga  did—" 

"It  was  De  Folligny,"  he  groaned.  "But  I  couldn't 
do  anything.  That  would  have  made  things  worse." 

"Oh,  yes — and  then  the  play — that  dreadful  play  ! 
That  was  Olga's  doing.  I  was  there,  Philidor,  at  Rood's 
Knoll.  I  saw  it  all.  Listened  in  terror  to  every  word  of 
the  dreadful  sacrilege.  It  was  sacrilege ! — to  see  my  love 
and  yours  pictured  the  dreadful  thing  that  that  love 
was.  I  got  out  somehow.  They  were  talking  of  me — 
lightly.  I  heard  them ;  as  they  talked  of — of  other  women 
who  do  not  know  right  from  wrong — as  they  would  have 
talked  of  that  dreadful  Frenchwoman  who — who  was 
killed." 

She  was  sobbing  gently  on  his  shoulder,  her  slender 
body  quivering  and  drawing  closer.  "Oh,  I  have  paid — 
paid  in  full  for  my  fault — " 

He  soothed  her,  but  she  started  back,  holding  him  at 
arm's  length,  her  eyes  the  more  lovely  through  their  tears. 
"But  I  regret  nothing.  I  would  suffer  more,  if  I  might, 
to  know  what  I  know.  I  have  learned  the  meaning  of  life, 
Philidor.  I  bless  my  pain  for  the  new  meaning  it  has 
given  my  joy.  I  bless  your  paia  even,  dear,  for  the  new 
meaning  it  has  given  your  unselfishness.  You  thought 
only  of  me,  of  my  happiness  when  I  had  paid  you  only 
misery." 

"There  shall  be  no  more  pain,"  he  murmured.  "There 
is  no  room  for  it.  Joy  shall  crowd  it  out." 

"Will  you  forgive  me?"  she  asked. 

339 


MADCAP 

/ 

"I'll  try,"  he  smiled.  "Will  you  promise  never  to  run 
away  from  me  again?" 

"Where  should  I  run?" 

He  meditated  a  moment  and  then  said  with  a  smile: 

"To  Trevelyan  M — " 

But  she  put  her  fingers  over  his  lips  before  he  could 
finish. 

"Don't  Philidor.  Wherever  I  went,  I  should  not  go 
to  Trewy."  She  laughed.  "He  cast  me  off,  you  know." 

"Cast  you  off?" 

She  nodded.  "He  heard  that  story  at  Rood's  Knoll 
after  I  had  gone.  The  next  day  he  came  to  my  house  in 
town.  I  saw  him.  He  wore  a  woe-begone  expression  and 
silently  presented  a  clipping  from  a  paper."  She  laughed 
again.  "He  looked  like  a  virtuous  undertaker  presenting 
a  bill,  long  overdue,  for  the  interment  of  some  lightly 
mourned  relative.  He  asked  me  if  the  story  were  true. 
I  said  it  was — and  he  went  out  of  the  house — casting  not 
even  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind !" 

"But  it  wasn't  true." 

"That's  just  the  point — but  he  thought  so.  Would 
you  have  believed  me  that  kind  of  a  girl?  You  could 
have,  you  know,  and  didn't."  She  sighed  happily,  and 
sank  back  into  his  arms.  "I  think  I  don't  want  people 
to  be  too  excellent,  Philidor.  Just  human — " 

"Were  you" — he  hesitated  a  moment — "were  you  en- 
gaged to  him,  Hermia?" 

She  gazed  at  him  wide-eyed. 

"Never,"  she  asserted,  and  then  repeated,  "Never, 
never,  never!" 

"But  the  newspapers " 

"0  Philidor!  How  could  I  have  been  engaged  to 
Trewy  when  I — I  was  already  engaged  to  you?" 

340 


DUO 

"Engaged." 

"Yes,  promised.  After  the  forest  at  Sees  I  knew  it 
then.  I  could  never  have  loved  anyone  else.  Why,  Phili- 
dor,  you  held  me  like  this,  and  kissed  me — " 

"You  loved  me  then — and  before — ?" 

She  hesitated  demurely. 

"Yes— before." 

"Before  Alen9on?" 

"Y— yes." 

"Before  Verneuil?" 

She  smiled  and  nodded. 

"Here— at  Vallecy?" 

"Before  that." 

"You  adorable  child !    Passy?" 

"Yes?" 

He  was  now  really  astounded.  What  she  added  as- 
tounded him  still  more. 

"I  think  it  began  before  'Wake  Robin'?" 

"Thimble  Island?" 

She  stammered.  "I — I  think  it  really  began  in  your 
studio." 

"In  New  York?" 

"You  interested  me — and  you  snubbed  me  so  com- 
pletely. You  were  so  impolite,  John  Markham.  I  was 
curious  about  you.  You  were  like  no  man  I  had  ever 
met.  You  told  me  the  truth.  I  didn't  like  it,  but  I 
respected  you  for  telling  it.  When  I  went  away  I  re- 
member wanting  to  see  you  again.  At  Thimble  Island — " 

"Yes?" 

She  hid  her  face  in  his  breast  and  the  words  came 
slowly. 

"My  visit  to — to  Thimble  Island — I — I  knew  you  were 
there.  My  m — motor  didn't  miss  fire,  Philidor?" 

341 


MADCAP  

He  raised  her  head  and  made  her  look  at  him.  Even 
in  the  wan  light  her  face  was  rosy  with  her  confession. 
But  she  laughed  joyously. 

"I  wanted  to  snub  you  for  being  so  rude  to  me.  Alas ! 
I  ended  by — by  scrubbing  your  floor." 

"Diana  of  the  Tubs  !     How  you  scrubbed !" 

"I  liked  it.  You  were  very  nice  at  Thimble  Island, 
Philidor."  She  paused  a  moment.  "Then  Olga  came — 
and  the  others.  She  quite  owned  you,  then,  didn't  she?" 

"No,"  he  replied  slowly. 

"I  don't  think  I  really  liked  Olga's  face-powder  on 
your  coat,  dear." 

He  was  silent. 

"I  knew  you  didn't  love  her.  You  couldn't.  She 
wasn't  your  sort." 

More  silence. 

"You  didn't  care  for  her,  did  you?"  jerkily. 

He  looked  down  into  her  eyes  tenderly  but  made  no 
reply.  She  sighed  but  asked  no  more  questions.  And, 
when  he  knew  that  she  understood  the  meaning  of  his 
silence,  he  took  her  head  between  his  hands  and  made  her 
look  at  him. 

"Isn't  it  enough  for  me  to  say  to  you  that  I  love  you 
better  than  all  the  world,  dear,  that  I  am  yours — wholly 
and  indivisibly — my  past,  my  future — " 

"Oh,  I  am  content,"  she  whispered  quickly.  "Your 
past — shall  be  what  you  have  made  it.  I'm  not  afraid. 
But  your  future — " 

She  caught  one  of  his  hands  in  both  of  her  own  and 
held  it  to  her  heart.  "That  is  mine." 

There  was  a  silence  rich  with  meaning.  The  stream, 
the  whispering  boughs,  the  rising  breeze  in  the  tree-tops 
joined  in  the  soft  chorus  of  their  nuptial-song.  The 


DUO 

night  fell,  shrouded  in  mystery.  Behind  them  over  their 
shoulders  a  new  moon  rose,  a  harbinger  of  good  fortune, 
but  they  did  not  turn  to  look  at  it.  It  could  not  foretell 
them  a  fortune  that  was  already  theirs.  Its  light  flowed 
through  the  shadows,  paling  the  silhouette  of  the  leaver 
against  the  afterglow,  bathing  them  both  in  liquid  silver. 
He  told  her  many  of  the  things  that  she  already  knew,  bu<:. 
each  reiteration  had  a  new  meaning  and  a  new  delight. 
The  same  immortal  questions  and  answers,  ever  new,  ever 
mystifying!  The  touch  of  hands,  of  eyes,  the  physical 
contact,  outward  tokens  of  the  spiritual  pact  made  al- 
ready, the  welding  of  the  bonds  which  were  to  make  them 
one!  The  moments  of  their  more  intimate  confessions 
past,  he  told  her  of  the  friendship  of  Mrs.  Hammond  and 
what  she  had  done  to  set  the  story  right,  but  she  did  not 
seem  to  hear  him.  Her  gaze  was  upon  the  pale  rim  of 
light  along  the  hill-top  beyond,  a  gaze  which  looked  and 
saw  nothing  beyond  the  rosy  aura  of  her  thoughts. 

"What  does  it  matter  now?"  she  murmured.     "What 
Idoes  anything  matter — after  this?" 

"You  will  marry  me — soon?"  he  urged  her. 

She  sighed  softly  and  laid  her  hand  in  his. 

"Whenever  you  want  me  to,"  she  said,  with  eloquent 
simplicity. 

"To-morrow?" 

She  smiled  mischievously. 

"I  must,  I  think,  Philidor.    Would  you  have  me  com- 
promised?" 

He  laughed  happily. 

"Yes.    Compromised  by  reverence,  pilloried  by  tender- 
ness— " 

"Not  reverence,  Philidor.    I'm  only  a  little  devil,  after 
all." 

343 


MADCAP 

"Then  devils  are  angels  in  Vagabondia.  Your  wings 
are  white,  Hermia." 

"They're  trailing  now — " 

"Brave  wings — fluttering — weary  of  flight.  They 
shall  fly  no  more — " 

"Not  alone — broader  ones  shall  bear  them  company." 

A  pause. 

"After  to-morrow — shall  we  go?" 

"Afoot,  Philidor — as  before." 

And  then.     "Poor  Clarissa!" 

He  laughed.    "You  shall  have  her." 

She  started  up  in  delight. 

"You  mean  that  you — ?" 

"Clarissa  is  languishing  in  a  stable  in  Paris." 

She  spoke  of  Cleofonte  and  the  Signora. 

"We  must  find  them,  too,  Philidor.  And  Stella — I 
promised  her.  We  must  do  something  for  Stella." 

It  was  growing  late.  There  was  a  sound  in  the  thicket 
behind  them.  They  started  up  and  were  confronted  by 
the  ancien,  who  hobbled  toward  them,  with  his  stick  and 
lantern,  like  Diogenes  searching  for  an  honest  man. 

"God  be  praised!"  he  croaked.  "You  are  here.  We 
feared  you  might  have  fallen  among  the  rocks." 

"Among  the  roses,  Pere  Guegou.  Thy  roses — "  said 
Yvonne,  her  hand  in  Philidor's. 

The  old  man  stared  at  them  witlessly,  then  turned  and 
lighted  them  upon  their  way. 

(2) 


THE    END 


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